A Second Chance
by Acid and Sinick
Summary: Written for prompt: Garrett Hawke killed Anders during the Chantry explosion; he tried to move on, despite heartbreak. Years later, he meets reincarnated Anders. Anders came back to give life a second try, his new incarnation just isn't aware of it. Yet.
1. Part I: The Apprentice

**_A Second Chance_ was written for the following prompt: **

Hawke killed Anders after the Chantry explosion. It's been somewhere between sixteen to eighteen years after, and Hawke's tried to move on despite the heartbreak stemming from Anders' actions. And then Hawke meets reincarnated Anders. Anders came back to give life a second try, his new incarnation just isn't aware of it.

_(Anonymous) 2011-09-13 06:08 pm_

* * *

**PART I: THE APPRENTICE**

* * *

_When the cockerel crows atop a dunghill, the weather may change, or stay the same still._ _- German proverb_

* * *

"I didn't do it!" Anders cried. At the sight of a raised staff, he put up his hands so fast that his favorite badass Liberator-style feather pauldrons tickled his ears. At his feet, the other apprentices, poor sods, groaned and barely stirred.

"I didn't! Honest."

Anders did his best to look guileless, even though he could see how anyone just marching into the apprentices' common room could get the wrong idea about Anders being a less than stellar example to his peers. After all, Anders was the only one still standing, holding a not-quite-empty wineskin of brandy - which, OK, he _had_ liberated from the Spoiled Princess - while all around him, drunker and nakeder apprentices sprawled like... well, like the aftermath of a really good party.

Senior Enchanter Petra scowled at them over the staffpoint, and Anders could practically hear her thinking _Tsk. How irresponsible!_

When she lowered her staff, he lowered his arms, and looked suitably hangdog. She probably wanted everyone here to scurry off bright and early to all their lessons tomorrow. Too bad, really, since nobody - except maybe Anders himself, because he was just that good - could possibly scurry anywhere in their current state, much less hold their own against Enchanter Eadric, or worse, Enchanter Levyn. He shook his head at the scattered bodies. _Thought I taught them to hold their liquor better than this._

"Why does everyone always think I did it?" He peered at Dagna the Librarian, hoping for a sign of sympathy, and then back to Petra. He shrugged inwardly and tried a pout on them. _Pouts work, occasionally, even on an old bore like Petra. Cats work too, even better than a pout. Where's Ser Pounce-a-Lot when I need him?_

"Anders, it's Daylen and Solona's Final Test tomorrow! Do you ever think before you act?"

_Oh yeah. Oops._ Anders peered down. Daylen Amell had passed out ages ago, before he even got around to stripping off the rest of his robe, and his twin sister wasn't much better. _Not even a glimpse of naughty bits, and everyone was just getting started..._ "W-well, that's why we had to have a party for them! In fact, they insisted!" He warmed to the story as he spun it, knowing that nobody was in any state to contradict him. "We were talking; you know how in the Harrowing days the templars could kill you even if you just took a bit longer than they liked... so you had to live it up in case you didn't make it! And we figured we had to do the same, out of respect for the Sacrifices of our Forebears." Anders even managed to lift his chin and Look Noble. _Not bad for off-the-cuff nugshit, even if I do say so myself!_

Dagna snorted at him and shook her head. "Oh nevermind," she sighed to Petra, "Why are you even listening to him? Just let the rest of them sleep it off, and we'll get the Amells to a Healer."

"Um, I'm a Healer," Anders chimed in, ever so helpful. "I'm really good at it too! Promise!" He wiggled his fingers and grinned brightly. "I've got a magic touch, everyone says so."

He found himself on the receiving end of Petra's glare. "You're not a Healer yet, my lad, and you'll never pass your Final Test unless you apply yourself! Now come along."

Anders sighed. He should've stayed on the other side of the lake this time around.

So Anders took his staff and his skin of brandy (no sense in letting good booze go to waste around this lot) and off they went, round and round the tower, up the staircases, through the library and all the way up to the top floor. Where the First Enchanter's office was.

The Sexy Sonofabitch Himself's office, that is. The Silver Fox's den. The usual spring returned to Anders' step, despite all those bloody flights of stairs. _Well, isn't this interesting? I never thought a bit of a pre-Final Test piss-up would be worth bothering __**him**__ about!_ But with a development like that, Anders wasn't sorry at all. Not even a little bit.

The night was still young, and it was already looking up.

Undeterred by the Senior Enchanter's stern glare, he gave Petra a charming grin. "So, are you going to be the Guardian for the Amells' Test tomorrow? You can tell me..."

"Anders!"

"What? I was just wondering..."

"None of your business! Now hurry up!" She walked briskly up to the office door and knocked.

* * *

This late at night, Kinloch Hold was quiet enough that the knock was clearly audible, even in the private rooms beyond the First Enchanter's office. Hawke rolled out of bed at once, absently setting the book aside as he tightened the sash on his evening robe and hurried into the office, heart racing.

This late, it wouldn't be a social call.

He wasted no time in waving the door open; he relaxed minutely when he glimpsed an all-too-familiar face, peering bright-eyed over Petra's shoulder.

"What's he done now, Senior Enchanter?" Hawke groaned, dropping his face into his hand and rubbing his sore eyes.

"Hope we didn't interrupt anything interesting, ser," Anders cut in at once, with a grin as flashy as the gold earring glinting in his ear. "I'd just like to say, I was on my best behavior all day long. Dunno why Petra..."

"Since it hasn't been 'day' for hours, that hardly reassures me," Hawke parried sharply. "Unless you've suddenly been promoted to Senior Enchanter, I wasn't talking to you. Now are you going to shut up, or will I have to give you a refresher course in Glyph of Paralysis?"

Anders' eyes lit up and his eyebrows wagged suggestively but he answered with his widest silent grin.

Hawke eyerolled at the brat before turning his attention to Petra, nodding in the appropriate places as she filled him in on the latest shenanigans. He sighed. "Maybe if they have to deal with the consequences they'll learn not to binge. No hangover treatment this time, to anyone but the Amell twins." He thought it over and added in a grumble, "Except contraceptive potions of course." He nodded to Petra. She was a bit officious - there was nothing here that couldn't have waited until the morning - but she did do her job. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention," he told her, before giving the boy with her the side-eye. "I'll take it from here. Good evening, Senior Enchanter."

Another good thing about Petra was that she wasn't chatty. She returned his nod and let herself out.

Leaving him to deal with the excessively chatty boy.

"Soo..." Anders beamed at him, like a particularly chirpy canary in a crow's disguise. He made a show of pulling the collar of his charcoal robes wide open. "Here we are..." He licked his finger and smoothed a black feather back into place on his left pauldron. "Late at night... All alone together. Why, First Enchanter," the impossible brat actually purred, "this is just the way rumours start." He eyed Hawke's desk as eagerly as if he wanted to be bent over it and shagged senseless there and then.

_Which is a thought that I really should __**not**__ be having!_ Hawke reminded himself with an inward wince. "You look satisfied with yourself," Hawke snapped: as always, the best defense was a good offense.

"Not yet, but I'm hoping you could change that-"

"Had a really lovely time, I suppose," Hawke overrode him. "Getting all the senior apprentices completely plastered." Hawke kept right on talking, jaw growing tight as he abruptly strode up to the boy, glaring straight into his eyes. "The only thing I want to know is, was it deliberate? Did you mean to jeopardise the Amells' chances? Did you want them to have to take their Final Test all over again? Or was it all just your usual bloody brainlessness?"

For just a bit, that smug expression faded from the boy's face. Anders huddled in his feathers like a wet crow and bit his lip, watching Hawke with a resolute stare and it seemed like the question sunk in. But it wasn't for long. "Now waitaminute!" Anders exclaimed. "This is the Amells! Daylen can even take me in a duel, well sometimes, and Solona sleeps in the library! They've got what it takes, and a bit of a drink isn't going to change that." His lips twitched in an ever-sunny grin as he waved his arms. "Look, think of it as an extra challenge. If they don't pass your silly test tomorrow, I'll eat my own pauldron. But everyone needs some time to relax, now and then. Taste the freedom. Smell the brandy." He raised the wineskin up and had the nerve to offer it up to Hawke. "Got some right here. Want?"

With an emphatic sweep of one arm, Hawke snatched it out of Anders' hand, noting that the thirsty little buggers had left it almost drained. "Maker knows, you could drive the Grand Cleric to drink," he growled. Having made this shocking reference to their former oppressor, he pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it into his palm then drank the wineskin dry in one long gulp. He shoved the emptied wineskin and cork back at the boy, giving him a 'that's how it's done' glower.

_After all,_ Hawke consoled himself, _it is well after hours._

"Well that's proper appreciation!" Anders looked suitably impressed. "Now I know who to go to, next time I come back from a little visit to town."

"Speaking of which," Hawke smiled grimly, "You're confined to the tower, until both the Amells and you have passed your Final Test."

"Wait... what?" Anders gaped at him. "Confined? You mean, no pub? No town? Not even after dark? That, that... That's _prison!_"

Hawke spread his hands in a mock-helpless gesture. "How else am I going to cut supply off at the source? I don't know anyone else reckless enough to bring that much hard liquor back to the dorms!"

"You wouldn't do that!" Anders declared, though his tone was far from sure. "You care about us! You'd never trap us and torture us like... like the templars did! This is unfair!"

Hawke folded his arms and called the brat's bluff. "Tell you what," he declared. "If you don't want to be confined, you _could_ always take your Final Test tomorrow. If it really _is_ no problem to do so with a well-earned hangover."

"Yeah, but... Actually! Er..." Anders' eyes narrowed in determination and he held up his staff for good measure. "Fine!" he spat. "Haven't got a choice now, have I? I'll take your stupid test!"

* * *

The Revolution had filled every waking hour of Hawke's life, for more than a decade since he lost Anders. _Since I killed him_, he corrected himself bitterly. The guilt and grief was as agonising all these years later, as it had been the moment he slid the knife into his beloved's heart.

As he'd done every day since then, he tried to console himself. _I knew him better than anyone in the world..._ Anders' withdrawn posture, hunched and defeated, the way he'd stretched out his long white throat, like a sacrificial lamb, silently offering it to his blade. Every line of his familiar, beloved body, every tremor in his beautiful voice, had screamed to Hawke of desperate measures and grief and a final plea for salvation.

_He wanted to die, _Hawke told himself, just as he'd told himself for years, desperately clinging to that argument to shore up his own sanity. _He wanted the cause to have a martyr. He hated what circumstances forced him to do. He wanted to be free of it all. And he wanted __**me**__ to set him free. He even told me as much._

Again and again, Hawke heard the words he'd never forget as long as he lived. _'For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you.'_

Hawke could _never _be glad.

So instead, Hawke commemorated that immeasurable loss in the only way that held any meaning. He took up the cause Anders bequeathed to him, and carried it to the farthest corners of Thedas.

The news spread like wildfire: of Meredith's causeless Rite of Annulment, of Anders' successful strike. In every nation, the Circles rose up in revolt with the speed and force of a millennium of resentment of brutal repression. Together, they threw off the chains of the Templars.

Timing was key. Because all the Circles rose up at the same time, the Grand Cleric could not contain the Revolution by targeting one with an Exalted March. The spark Anders kindled in Kirkwall lit a firestorm that swept throughout Thedas, burning away the Templars, shattering the Chantry's grasp.

The merchant princes of Orzammar, canny as always to the winds of change, foresaw the dwindling market for lyrium among templars, the growing market among mages, and forged new trading alliances, cutting off supply. They were even eager to do so; they'd never trusted the Chantry's plan to replace Paragons with their surfacer god. The few templars that survived the uprisings were swiftly crippled by lyrium withdrawal. Only in Orlais did the Chantry retain a tiny fraction of its former influence. Without their military arm, they were reduced to a reactionary, powerless group, an impotent relic of their former theocratic might.

Mages were free throughout Thedas, for the first time since the rise of the Chantry. Slowly but surely, as they returned to their families and began serving the villages where they'd been born, began saving lives, healing, building, helping, attitudes continued to change. The lies of the Chantry were more clearly exposed day by day: every day their familiar neighbourhood mage failed to turn into a devouring abomination, refused to stoop to blood magic, declined to summon demons. At long last, mages were equal to everyone else, free to do as they wished: to fall in love, to marry, to build homes, to have children and futures and lives worth living.

It was the only fitting memorial for the man who became known throughout Thedas simply as the Liberator. Their world revered the hero, but only Hawke remembered the man.

Only Hawke truly knew him. Only Hawke loved him. And now, at the end of all Hawke's fighting, his penance was to go on living.

Without the only one he'd ever loved.

* * *

On the way back to his room, Anders thwapped the empty wineskin against the wall. It made a hollow, pathetic noise, empty and flabby; far too much like his current mood.

_Bollocks! _he grumbled to himself. _Why do I even bother showing anyone a good time? _Adults might have seemed tolerable, sometimes, but underneath they were all like Petra, or worse: poor old Owain. _Bloody load of wrinkled up prunes!_

_So Hawke took one drink, big deal! He might look sexy, but he's a heartless sod! Probably never had a chance to have any **real **fun with anyone!_

_General of the Revolution, my arse! What would **he **know about loving life?_

* * *

First Enchanter Irving had been old and withered when the Blight hit Ferelden; Uldred's descent into insanity had broken something crucial in him. He hung on only long enough to witness King Alistair's orders to the Landsmeet, making Ferelden's Circle the first one given full self-governance and autonomy from the Chantry. When the last aftershocks of the Revolution had finally shown signs of burning out, Irving had sent word to Garrett Hawke. He'd offered Hawke a new battle, one quieter and longer-lasting. As a lifelong apostate, Hawke had never even been to the Circle, but he accepted Irving's offer all the same, thinking that it would be a refreshing dose of calm.

How little he'd known. It had taken barely a month in the position of First Enchanter before he'd learned new respect for Irving.

Hawke learned that battling Templars and the Chantry had a simplicity to it that running a Circle lacked. Back then, the enemy had been clear, and his reaction even clearer. But he certainly couldn't unleash the full, fearsome brunt of his magic on the first misbehaving student that crossed his path, or the hundredth. When he'd taken charge of Ferelden's Circle - in the name of freedom, in the service of the King, in the memory of the Liberator - he'd found that herding hormonal youngsters required one of the few weapons he was unskilled at wielding: it required tact.

And so, with the Revolution as won as it would be in his lifetime, it was time for old dog Hawke to learn some new tricks. _Not,_ Hawke reminded himself wryly as he moved into the First Enchanter's towertop quarters,_ that thirty-seven is all that old._ So Hawke spent the next years wrestling willingly with these new challenges: he threw himself into rebuilding the Circle as a sanctuary, of knowledge, of freedom. As a site of remembrance.

For all Hawke's enthusiasm for the position, it didn't come naturally to him. He would always be a warrior at heart; as far as he was concerned, it took men like Viscount Dumar and Seneschal Bran to actually enjoy politics. His force magic could crumple Templar armor like fistfuls of dry leaves, but it could not win over Senior Enchanters who'd grown used to the Chantry's restrictive ways.

In the end, it would take a more subtle spell: Hawke's words, his patience (hard-learned from Anders' example), his status as the General who had carried on the Liberator's war for mages' freedom. With the force of that reputation - more arcane than all his Force Magic - he could push the more stubborn sods in the right direction, but it had been a long, slow job. Sometimes, it felt like it had been almost as much of a struggle to win over the stubborn elements among Ferelden's nobility and Ferelden's Circle, as it had been to break the templars' stranglehold on all the other Circles.

_Anders - __**my **__Anders - was always the patient one, not I. He waited years, exhausted himself trying every other option, holding back and holding Justice back, until he was absolutely certain that nothing else he could do would make enough of a difference._ Hawke recalled vivid memories of slender hands, a Healer's gifted hands, saving the injured and the sick, kneading reviving energies into Hawke's sore shoulders, stroking Hawke's mane tenderly as if scratching a cat's ear. The same elegant hands were swift and precise in directing firestorms and lightning strikes against foes.

Those same gentle fingers had mixed sela petrae and drakestone. Had brought down a Chantry.

Had brought down the Templars' ages-old reign of terror.

Over a decade of grief and loss had weighted down Hawke's bounding stride, calmed his impatience, steadied and grounded him, given him a focus and gravitas far beyond his years. And the position as Ferelden's First Enchanter had given him a new purpose, just when the fading of the war had left him achingly adrift. It had given him a new place in the world, a reason to stay alive.

Remade, rebuilt, liberated, Kinloch Hold held Hawke's heart and devotion, as it became his new life's work.

It became his home.

* * *

Ser Pounce-A-Lot had waited for Anders to come back, as he perched patiently by the open window, in his basket. He hopped down from his personal embroidered cat pillow as soon as Anders walked through the door, yawned and mewed his welcome, stretched and tested his claws on the sheets, climbed and spread out on his rightful spot on Anders' chest as soon as Anders' head hit the pillow.

Anders lifted his head, nuzzling against a wet kitty-nose, sinking his fingertips into sleek orange fur, and told him everything. "You understand me, don't you, Pounce," he mumbled at the end. "You know what it means to be free. They'll never cage either of us!"

A smirk appeared on his face, as daring as the cat's smug purr.

"I'd like to see them try!"

* * *

Dog was a grand old hound by the time Hawke took charge of Ferelden's Circle. Content to warm the corner of his master's tower office, he rested his greying muzzle over his heavy paws and stared up gruffly at the visitors with bloodshot, watery eyes. Such a constant presence he'd become in his rightful retirement, that when the day came, it caught Hawke by surprise.

On that day, Dog's time was up, and the last of Hawke's companions, his faithful mabari raised from a pup back in Lothering, had left his side.

An hour later, the tears had ebbed, but Hawke remained kneeling by the still body, fingers stroking the cooling fur, when he heard a rapid knock. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, but before he could summon enough of a voice to reply, the door opened, just enough of a crack to let a messy blond head poke in.

"Hallo, ser," chirped the lad. _I don't remember him, must be new..._ Hawke realised blearily as the boy rattled on in a thickly accented voice, "Wissen Sie... er, Do you know where..." he looked at a scrap of paper in his hand, "'Apprentice Quarters 181'? I am lost..." The breathless torrent of words abruptly dried up, and eyes - startlingly blue, the exact shade of lyrium - went round as saucers when their gaze fell on Dog. The boy gulped, and then their gazes met, and for a long moment neither of them could speak.

"I am very sad..." he said in a tiny voice. Then he winced, an odd, shamefaced look, "ach, _sorry,_" he corrected himself, "I am very sorry."

Hawke shook his head, blinking back another sudden surge of tears. "They're both right." he husked. "What's your name?"

"Anders."

_Anders. _A single word, a simple name, brought it all back: all the years of pain and loss and loneliness. But even _his_ Anders' magic couldn't heal death.

It must've been the current loss, sharp and raw, echoing the losses of his past, that made Hawke lift his hand from his dead companion's head and set it on the boy's shoulder, seeking comfort in contact, far more than lame condolences would have offered.

When he felt he could trust his voice again, Hawke used the touch to lever himself from his knees to his feet. After the long time kneeling, for once he moved and felt like a man much older than his years, hollowed out by new grief on top of old. But he was surprised at the note of kindness in his voice, when he husked, "Come on then, lad, let's get you to your new home."

No matter how kind Hawke managed to sound, no matter the gratitude in the too-blue eyes turned up to his own, he couldn't quite bring himself to call this little stranger by his beloved's name.

Not yet.

* * *

"Anders." A voice at the open door of 'Apprentice Quarters 181' sounded familiar. Anders turned to see the First Enchanter with a small basket in his hands.

"He needs a home," First Enchanter said, lifting a cloth over a basketful of tabby fur. "Would you take care of him?"

"Ooh!" Anders broke in a grin. He stood on his tiptoes and reached out, peeking in. Inside, the ball of fur stirred and mewed. _Kätzchen__!_ "Orange!" _Sie ist am besten!_ "My favorite! What is his name?"

"He doesn't have one yet."

"He needs a home_ and_ a name," Anders informed the man gravely. That was just the way the world worked. Everything had to have a name. Even if it wasn't the real name, like 'Anders'.

Enchanter Hawke thought about it. "How about Ser Pounce-A-Lot?" he asked with an odd little grin.

_Pounce? _"Yes! Good!" Anders nodded, looking up from the purring kitten to Enchanter Hawke. "I think he likes it."

Ser Pounce-A-Lot nuzzled up for attention, and Anders leaned in to touch his nose tip to the pink cold nose of the cat.

It was love at first sight.

* * *

Hawke may not have known a thing about loving life, may have been a boring old man like the rest, but he did do one amazing thing, something Anders had never forgotten. Anders smoothed down tiger-striped fur and scratched velvety ears. _He may be a sour old sod, but he still introduced me to Pounce._

Ser Pounce-A-Lot closed his eyes and released a chest-deep purr as he kneaded Anders' shoulder. Soothed by the familiar lullaby - and by more than the usual amount of drink - Anders sank into a deep sleep.

* * *

The lad was so friendly and likeable when he first came to the Tower. _What happened? _Hawke mused.

_Ah, yes, puberty. _Hawke snorted, thinking back to a curious boy too small for his robes; so different from today's smug imp, ridiculously proud of the downy fuzz on his cheeks, spouting dares and foolishness with every swoop of those feather pauldrons. These days, that look was called 'Liberator-style', and was considered dashing, if in an old-world way: a fact that Hawke found bittersweet. As far as he was concerned, only one person who'd ever lived could really do feather pauldrons justice.

And that someone wasn't the apprentice who was the current bane of Hawke's existence.

Oh, there were similarities: of course there were, even more than a shared homeland and the resulting shared nickname. Hawke would have to have been blind not to see them. This Anders was by far the Circle's most talented apprentice in the Creation school; outside of that, he had a very unusual aptitude for only the fire spells from the Elemental school, and only the lightning spells from the Primal school. These were the three branches _his_ Anders had favoured, if one left aside the man's even more extraordinary gifts as a Spirit Healer: gifts that presumably had come from his bond with Justice.

They were similar physically as well as magically, close enough to be related: they both had the strong, angular features and the tall, lanky build of their people. By day, the boy was merely a paler, younger reflection of _his_ Anders: blond rather than almost-redheaded; eyebrows and stubble as gold as that gaudy earring. But by firelight, with its red glow and shifting shadows, the resemblance to his lost love was positively uncanny.

Freckles dusted the bridge of the lad's nose and his high cheekbones, dappled his arms and chest, left bare by the flashy Tevinter-style robes he favored. _Hawke's_ Anders, who'd spent his life locked away in the old prison-Circle and later in hiding, buried in Darktown, covered up in his high-collared robes, hadn't been out in the sun enough to get many freckles.

But the most striking physical difference was their eye color. Hawke would never forget the warm amber of his lover's eyes. This boy's eyes were a vivid blue; the exact hue of Justice's power. They were striking, no doubt: an asset he used far too effectively on his fellow apprentices and teachers. But for Hawke, the sight raised uncomfortable memories of his beloved, possessed.

Of course, their personalities were _nothing_ alike. _His_ Anders had been noble, selfless, dedicated to the welfare of others, to the point of driving himself to exhaustion.

To the point of sacrificing his own life, to give others the freedom he could never have.

Anders the Apprentice was a shameless, rampant hedonist: a glib, glittering gadfly of a boy with magical talent and intellect to spare, but who coasted through his theoretical classes on the bare minimum of work, applying himself only when he was allowed to shoot fireballs or lightning bolts. Granted, he really was a prodigy at healing, but so far Hawke had seen little evidence that he had the gentle, nurturing nature that really complimented the healing arts.

No. As far as Hawke could tell, the boy was nothing but a brat.

A brilliant, brash, beautiful brat.

And of course, as was only to be expected of someone that attractive, bright and charming, he'd made quite the impression on his fellow apprentices. It sometimes made Hawke wonder. _What was __**my**__ Anders like, in his youth?_ His Anders had joked about everyone kissing everyone else in the Circle, about apprentice robes being lifted for quick corner trysts; and from Hawke's own experience with the place, he could see now that, if anything, Anders had understated matters.

Presumably, Anders the Apprentice had kissed his share of willing lips, lifted his fair share of robes. As far as Hawke was concerned, the brat was very lucky Hawke hadn't caught him at it.

For what it was worth, Ser Pounce-A-Lot had grown to be a tiger among the Tower's mousers. He still trotted along in Anders' footsteps, plumy tail waving proudly as a golden pennant. Hopefully a familiar that wise would keep the imp out of too much trouble.

Thus, Hawke had many reminders of the past in his life, and in the aching, endless absence of his lost love, he'd learned to settle for acceptable substitutes. He'd grown accustomed to settling into his solitary bed, a copy of Anders' Manifesto in his beloved's familiar, faded handwriting always at his bedside, always preserved by a protective rune.

'You were right all along, my love,' he told it, stroking the yellowed pages as tenderly as he once stroked his beloved's face. 'We won because of you. And we will continue winning because of you."

The Manifesto folded carefully on his nightstand, Hawke settled into his pillow, knowing full well that he'd rise again in just a few hours. He was still First Enchanter of the greatest Circle in Thedas. And tomorrow, he had a Final Test to personally oversee.

For all his reliance on spirits of a liquid sort as a way of escape, Hawke's dreams were as empty that night as they had been ever since everything that mattered in his life had gone to the Void. In all the years since, he'd never relaxed the protections that kept his dreaming self safe from any fickle spirit of the Fade.

* * *

_Sunshine hurts!_

_Ugh! _Anders winced and rolled over hiding his face in his Mum's embroidered pillow. _Too bright!_

He could just hear his Mutti now. "Huldiberaht!" she would've yelled. "Wächst du auf!"

Anders' eyes snapped wide then; he was galvanised into wakefulness by the terrifying idea of everyone and their best friend in the Circle Tower knowing his real name. He'd barely made it out of the Anderfels, when the very first Ausländer he met had hopelessly mangled his name. Right then and there he'd realised why so many of his countrymen took Anders as a use-name in the outside world, and decided to follow their lead. With every new face since then, he'd known he'd made the right decision. All it would have taken would be one person learning the truth, and the next moment, everyone would be calling him _Hilde_, and his days as an envied playboy would be over forever.

Anyway, the name Anders suited him: while there were Rivaini and Antivan and even a couple of Tevinter kids at Kinloch Hold - Ferelden's Circle was famous throughout Thedas as the largest and most liberal - he was the only apprentice from the distant and insular Anderfels. And, best of all, the Liberator himself had come from the same land, had gone by the same name.

He fluffed his pillow and re-settled. _To the Void with classes, _he thought blearily, _Need sleeeep!_ But then, as his luck would have it, his booze-blurred memory began to clear, and bits and pieces of what happened yesterday began to emerge from the general haze.

_Brandy... Lots and lots of brandy. _A glimpse of the twins passed out; a memory of sprawled bodies, some of them snoring, some doing more interesting things. _More brandy. _And - _oh Maker _- the First Enchanter, that scolding growl and the premature streaks of silver at his temples and in that sexybastard beard of his.

And now Anders had an appointment to keep. _Oh. Shit!_

He ran his fingers through his hair to tame the worst of it, staggered to his feet and shrugged on his coat. He grabbed the plain stick of wood that was his apprentice's staff, even though he had to lean on it more than usual before the room stopped spinning. He supposed that he'd better at least show up to whatever test they were going to throw at him, so he could at least try and bargain his way back to freedom at the end of the day.

He groaned as he checked the empty wineskin which was his last supply of brandy. He groaned louder as he recalled that his access to more was effectively cut off. _How did the old mages put up with this unfairness their entire lives?_ Anders was technically only a prisoner of the Circle Tower for one night, and he already hated every second.


	2. Part II: Justice

**Part II: Justice**

"Good morning, Owain," Hawke smiled at the quartermaster, who nodded to him with his unvarying grave courtesy.

"Good morning, First Enchanter Hawke," Owain greeted him tonelessly. The old man deserved the cushy retirement Hawke wanted to give him, but every time Hawke asked him what he wanted, he replied that he would rather keep on working here. It was the only time Owain actually expressed a preference about anything, so Hawke didn't have the heart to do otherwise to one of the last remaining Tranquil in Ferelden. It seemed to have worked out, anyway. "What will it be today?" Owain asked.

"Lyrium for today's Final Tests, thank you."

Owain nodded. "Four doses of lyrium," he crossed to the locked store, "for Solona and Daylen Amell, and for their Guardians, Senior Enchanters Petra and Eadric."

"Six doses, please." When Owain turned to look incuriously at him, he explained, "The other two are for Anders and me."

"Anders wasn't scheduled for his Final Test today."

"In my judgement, he's more than ready." As Hawke improvised, he was inwardly surprised to realise that his ad-libbing wasn't far off the mark. Anders was unusually talented. Hangover or no, Hawke would be amazed if he didn't pass. He frowned, suddenly unsure how he felt about that. These days, once mages passed their Final Test, they almost always left the Tower right afterwards, striking out to make their own lives for themselves beyond the Circle. The only mages who stayed were the tiny minority training to fill professorial positions, and the even tinier minority who'd formed bonds with Fade spirits during their Final Test, and thus gained the power needed to begin postgraduate training as Spirit Healers.

Owain accepted the change in plans with his usual equanimity. "Six doses of lyrium," he nodded, careful hands cradling six small flasks as he retrieved them from the locked store. He set them on the counter in a perfect line and counted them out once more. Then he took out a quill and began filling out his ledger with immaculate notes of the transaction. Hawke sighed. Owain's handwriting was as precise and unhurried as his speech. "Sign here," he finally indicated.

"Great, thanks." Hawke grabbed the quill and squiggled more or less where Owain's finger pointed, dropped the quill, scooped up all six flasks in one swipe, and strode out in a rapid flap of robes.

He had an Apprentice in need of a Guardian, and that was an appointment he wasn't about to miss.

* * *

As Hawke strode out the front door of the Tower, out into the grounds, he faced the sunlit lake and drew a deep breath. The morning air was crisp and cool; it smelled of sunshine, of freedom. The lake was as still as a mirror, a perfect reflection of the clear morning sky, the brightly painted buildings of the thriving town on the far end of the rebuilt causeway. Silvery plumes of fog curled lazily in the morning air, lifting off the lake's margins, spangling the grass with diamonds of dew. The low rays of the early sunlight threaded between the streamers of fog, as visibly as planes of glass.

Overlooking that beautiful sight stood the Liberator's memorial: a ten foot tall statue of black granite, cream marble and red gold. The statue towered over the surrounding flower garden, its staff upraised in a protective gesture.

The inscription at the statue's feet read, _I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation._

In the garden, the Amell twins were already waiting, along with their Guardians.

There was an awfully familiar clatter of a student running downstairs, as Anders hurried out at last, bracing himself against the staircase. "Whew," he gave everyone a beaming smile and squinted at the sun. "Well, now I'm here, let's get this party started!"

"Get over here," Hawke grumbled. "Since you're so eager to Fadewalk, perhaps you should show the rest of us how it's done."

Anders sniffed the flask. "See you on the other side," he smirked at Hawke, clinking flasks with him in a mock toast. "Bottoms up!" He tossed the dose back. Smacked his lips. Had just enough time to say, "Nobbad..." before his eyes crossed and he toppled like a felled tree.

Fortunately for the silly sod, Hawke was there to catch his fall. He allowed himself only enough time to lay the limp body down in the soft, springy grass, before drinking his own dose and stretching out beside Anders.

* * *

Anders blinked and lifted his face from the familiar nubby embroidery of Mum's pillow. He squinted at the obnoxiously-red crosstitched cockerel and groaned._ A subtle reminder to 'rise and shine', all right! As if I need a reminder. It's the same every morning, with the wind blowing every which way or not, mine rises just on time. __Say hello to my personal weathervane, ladies and gents! I could really do with a long slow blowjob right about now..._

He even would have settled for a quick wank, just something to take the edge off his nerves, but now wasn't the time. He realised that now_really_ wasn't the time when he heard Mum's distant voice calling, "Huuuldiiiberaaaht!"

_Well that's one way to dispel all the magic!_ Anders shuddered, abandoned his ex-rection, and rolled over. Right off the bed...

...and fell into the lake. COLDWETCAN'TBREATHE! Anders thrashed and kicked wildly, and surfaced with a whoop and a splutter, blinking water out of his eyes and looking around. Above the lake, his bed floated in midair, canted sideways at a random angle, pillows and sheets still sticking to it as if they were charmed. The water was as frigid as any morning in Lake Calenhad. It was the first time Anders had ever regretted his habit - ever since leaving the icy Anderfels for comparatively warm Ferelden - of sleeping stark-bollocks naked. Because he'd woken up in the Fade just as naked, like he always was in all the best - and worst - of his dreams. It was just his rotten luck that the cold water wasn't the best place to be showing off. Even if he had anyone to show off to: no one else seemed to be around.

_Fuck it's freezing! Where's your Guardian when you actually need one?_

Anders swam a few strokes and started wading to the shore as soon as his feet felt the ground. Halfway to land, he reached up and plucked his staff out of midair, where it was hovering above the water, as randomly as the bed. It was good to have his staff in hand again. _The wooden one... the __**apprentice**__ one. __**Focus**__**!**_ he told himself as he slogged out of the lake, casting a carefully low-powered fire spell to dry and warm himself as soon as he was out of the water. _If a Desire demon targets me, how would I tell?_ With an effort, he dragged his mind above his waist, and looked around. _No sexybeardedbastard Hawke. Not a soul around._

_Wait..._ That wasn't entirely true. Anders squinted against the morning sun. In the pale, low light he could just make out a distant, silvery shape. He sighed with relief, even though it was obviously not the First Enchanter. It was a far more familiar protector, one of the earliest things he remembered dreaming about. When Anders was very young, he'd named the armored figure _der Weisse Ritter_. He'd taken comfort in the admittedly cliched idea of a white knight, a protector who defeated all the monsters hiding in the darkest corners of his dreams. The shining warrior in full plate and helm had always watched silently over Anders, always vanquished Anders' nightmares. But though he'd been a recurring figure in Anders' dreams all his life, there had never been a single word spoken, never so much as a single glimpse beneath the helm.

As Anders strode up the low grassy hill toward the White Knight, shadows began to gather at Anders' back, thickening around the edges of his vision. A cold wind sprang up, and obeying the icicles of dread tracing his spine, Anders broke into a run, racing to reach the stalwart figure at the top of the hill. As Anders came closer the Knight readied his shield, and lunged toward Anders, raising his shield over Anders' turned shoulder, protecting him from the darkness and the cold at his heels.

Anders jolted to a halt, his panting the only sound beyond the chill whistle of the wind. Standing so close to the Knight, within the protective reach of his heavy shield, Anders could see the armored figure more clearly than ever before. For the first time, the Knight lacked the misty indistinctness of dreams. Anders could see every joint and plate of his softly glowing armor, could trace every silver ring of his mail. The formerly-spectral protector looked solid and strong and real, every bit as real as Anders himself.

"_Hilfe!"_ Anders panted, his instinctive, boyhood plea for help. The warrior laid his gauntleted hand gently on Anders' shoulder. It felt like real armor would - metallic and cool and heavy - yet the contact also sent a thrill of raw power through Anders' body, spilling gooseflesh all over his naked skin, sparking every nerve-ending with lightning.

His gasp at the shock of energy was raw in the oppressive, pre-thunderstorm stillness. The Knight's touch gave him the courage to turn to face the gathering darkness. Feeling charged to the ends of his windblown hair, he raised his staff in a gesture as defiant as the world's biggest fuck-you finger to the Fade.

The shadows around them gathered like a storm, in the sky as well as on the ground, thunderclouds heavy and purple, bristling with lightning, snarling with thunder. Their shadow withered the grass beneath Anders' feet, cracked the soil, desolate as a desert. Abruptly, lava boiled from the fissured earth, exploding upward as the beast burst forth from the depths.

Not an indinstict shadow. Not an unseen monster under the bed. An actual demon stood before them. Horns and all. More than twice as tall as the steadfast figure of the White Knight.

The demon opened a mouth like a swordmaker's shopfront and roared in a voice that made the earth shake, "ICH BIN STOLZ!"

Anders sniffed and wrinkled his nose at all the sulfur, decidedly unimpressed "'Pride'?" he scoffed, "What sort of name is that for a Pride Demon? Tsk, you're not even trying. This is my Final Test! Have a sense of occasion! Are you telling me you couldn't come up with a more original name than that? Honestly, you demons wouldn't know imagination if it sat on your face and did the spicy shimmy!"

The demon blinked all seven eyes at Anders, and looked as confused as something with a face like a purple mutant lobster could look.

The Knight, on the other hand, reacted as smoothly as though Anders' tirade was exactly what he expected. He leapt past Anders straight at the demon, his axe a glowing, deadly blur of lyrium-blue fury as he started methodically filleting the hulking brute.

"Hey, First Enchanter!" Anders shouted. "Remember that refresher course you offered me last night? Just wanted to show you I don't need it." _He'd best be watching now. _Anders twirled his staff and aimed for the ground at the Demon's feet. _Take this!_

The Glyph of Paralysis blossomed green, closing around one of the demon's clawed feet. It roared in surprise and outrage, and the Knight followed up with a whirl of his blade that took the trapped foot off at the ankle. The demon stumbled, but managed to stand on its severed stump. And the loss had freed it from Anders' glyph.

Anders hmphed. _Bit of a bloody waste of effort, that._ "Gotta work on team strategy!" he grumbled as he abandoned the idea of glyphs and instead zapped the Knight right between the shoulderblades with a lovely satisfying blast of Haste. "Keep up."

The Haste hadn't come too soon. The demon lashed out, bringing down one massive claw right where the Knight stood. If the armored figure hadn't sidestepped magically fast, Anders would have been left alone without him. Anders really really hated to be alone, at the best of times.

This was far from the best of times. Even with the gift of Anders' speed, the Knight had barely evaded the blow. The White Knight was Anders' personal icon of the Invincible. But now, for the very first time in Anders' life, it looked like the Knight could be beaten. Somehow that thought was even more terrifying than the demon. In a frantic burst of denial, Anders raised a Heroic Aura around the Knight. He could use some heroism. They both could.

The demon roared, its fists raised above its horned head, all seven eyes blazing with rage, and with one thrash of both titanic fists, he brought down an explosion of black force. The White Knight was felled by the blast, and the leaf-green glow of Anders Heroic Aura was snuffed like a candle in a gale. Anders raised his staff in a futile gesture as the black power washed over him in a sickening, disorienting wave and sunk in, draining him to his bones, driving him to his knees.

Anders panted, peering through the mop of his hair at the Knight. His lifelong protector looked so different now, for the first time no longer his indomitable self: sprawled on the ground like a broken statue. Like a wounded man. _C'mon, get up! Hurry!_ But he didn't stir. _If he's feeling as drained as me, with the demon right there..._

_Oh. Shit. NO! _

The demon turned, facing Anders, and fanged jaws stretched in a vicious snarl as it raised its giant, clawed fists once more, and brought them down.

Right on the Knight's chest. The shining armor crumpled, stained at once with all-too-human blood, shockingly red against the silver. Terror seized Anders in a crushing grip, freezing him as effectively as any glyph. _He's__ undefeatable! He's not supposed to die!_

Despair choked his spirit like the sobbing that wracked his body. The immense demon crouched over the fallen, glimmering figure, gloating. Its slavering jaws opened wider and wider, as if it was already feasting on the wounded Knight's pain.

At that, something in the depths of Anders' soul rebelled. _This is wrong! It's... it's __**unjust!**_

Anders gripped his staff in both hands, used it to stagger to his feet. The hulking, mountainous shape of the demon faded from his awareness; his entire being was focused utterly on the fallen Knight, his silvery glow fading, his still body growing fainter, more ethereal by the moment.

_Nonono! Don't be dead. I need you! Please, don't **die!**_

He reached for that familiar figure with his body, his magic, with everything he was. Something ineffable clicked into place, and it felt like two halves of something long-broken being fitted together, and the first of a thousand fractures suddenly melding together, becoming whole. Anders felt the fragile new connection with his old protector, and clung to it magically, frantic and desperate. _Don't leave me!_

The warding spell that burst forth from his staff was like Heroic Aura, but it blazed brighter, powered by the pure blue force of the Fade, not the limited, fallible green of one man's Creation magic. Exhilarated, he followed up with all his healer's instincts, and the next spell that exploded from him exceeded a normal Healing like a lightning bolt surpassed a single spark. The Knight arose, borne up on a wave of blue-white power, revived, healed of his terrible wounds. Anders didn't have to see beneath the armor, he _knew_ it, as surely as he knew the exultant pounding of his own heart.

_Yes! _He watched as the Knight moved with the deadly grace that was uniquely his, the axe whirling so fast it was a web of light as he lunged in a silver blur. The demon staggered backward, clutching its torso and howling, and then it collapsed in a mass of ichor and shadows, slime seeping back into the abyss from whence it came.

The Knight slung axe and shield onto his back, turned away from the dwindling remnants of darkness where the demon had disappeared, and took a step toward Anders.

Anders gasped out a breathless laugh and sprinted straight for the tall figure. Only when they'd collided, chest to chest, did he realise - with a burst of surprise that startled another laugh from him - that the Knight he'd always thought of as larger than life, taller and broader than any man, was no taller than Anders.

Anders was in for another surprise: the Knight apparently didn't know him as well as he'd always thought. That running hugtackle had surprised him, enough to catch him off balance for once. Enough to topple him backward. They fell together, landed softly on grass that was suddenly once more as green and lush as it should be, around Lake Calenhad, by the Circle Tower. Anders was stretched out along the Knight's body, naked skin to silver armor. He was laughing still, quiet huffs of joy and triumph. But still, the Knight in his arms was silent.

"We won!" Anders ran his hands over the glowing silvery plate, as solid as Anders himself. Anders raised his hands to the Knight's helm, and took his courage - and the Knight's helm - in both hands. And lifted.

He looked down at the last face he expected, and at the only face it could have been. At a sight both instantly familiar and utterly surreal.

His own face, yet not. Older, darker; ragged and stubbled, worn and whetted by war. Even the eyes were both familiar and strange: the color was precisely his own, but instead of human orbs they were endless whirlpools of pure spirit.

He fell into that dizzying, depthless gaze, and the falling felt like flight.

As his head came down, the kiss that followed was as natural, as inevitable, as perfect as the melding of two raindrops into a single, shining whole.

_**I am Justice.**_

_Hi! I'm Anders._

_**I know.**_

Memories rose up to meet him, as fast as the lake when he'd fallen out of bed; he plummeted into the past, and it closed over his head.

* * *

As Hawke awoke in the Fade, he saw Anders and his bed appear, hovering in midair above the lake, tilted at a crazy angle. Such inelegant initial entries into the Fade were usual; novices started their first Fadewalks as though they were in the illogical grip of ordinary dreams. Hawke reminded himself that unless Anders proved he could not handle what he encountered, his Guardian had to remain a silent, invisible observer. _This is just another Fadewalk_, he told himself sternly. _And he is just another Apprentice to watch over. Nothing else._

Just then, the dozing lad startled awake, falling out of bed with a flash of bare skin, and landing with a splash in the lake.

Hawke felt like facepalming. _Trust Anders to show up to his Final Test stark naked! I know a lot of people sleep like that, but Andraste's tits, there's a time and a place, and this isn't it!_ He could already tell this particular Guardianship would try his scant supply of patience in unprecedented ways.

He had no idea.

As Anders spluttered and splashed and swam and waded ashore a long, lean body was revealed, creamy skin glistening wetly in the early morning sun.

_He must spend a lot of time naked to get so freckled __**there**__..._ Hawke thought, briefly indulging himself in imagining the shameless sod lounging around, bare-arsed in broad daylight. And then Anders faced his invisible observer, and Hawke was almost startled enough to drop his concealment. _Maker!__ And I thought that earring was his only piercing!_

Hawke closed unseen eyes, drew a deep breath and took a firm grip on his control. And on nothing else. _Gah! Focus!_ Anders' magic shone in the Fade, clear and vivid; the lad had no idea how to conceal himself, as Hawke had done. _It's only a matter of time before that much magical talent attracts unpleasant attention. And it just so happens that the lad's worst weakness is likely to summon the strongest demons of them all._

_If it hasn't already,_ Hawke added grimly, readying himself as he saw that they weren't alone. On a low hill a short distance away from the lake, stood a distant, glowing figure, a warrior in bright plate. On high alert for deception, Hawke moved closer, but he relaxed a little as he approached. At least it didn't feel like a demon. Even the ones most skilled at mimicking mortal desires felt subtly, distinctively off to his experienced senses.

Then Hawke could feel shadows gathering in earth and sky. He turned to see a formless darkness pursuing Anders, who sprinted toward the spirit, smiling at it in an open, easy welcome which suggested long familiarity.

_But this is his first time Fadewalking!_ Hawke was certain of it: only an utter novice could have made such an embarrassingly clumsy entrance. _And yet he already knows a Fade spirit?_

Hawke's confusion was only deepened by the practiced assurance with which the spirit stepped forward, expertly shielding Anders from the first signs of a manifesting demon: Pride - drawn to the lad's own pride, no doubt. _The spirit knows him too!_

There was something here... Not a demon's deception, he still felt sure of that. But something else... Something oddly familiar about the way the spirit carried itself, the sure, efficient fighting stance, the confident movements, even though Hawke was certain he'd never seen this armored figure before. Hawke risked approaching closer still, reaching for a more detailed sense of the spirit's essential being. Something about the armored figure's confident, protective stance stirred memories decades old. As he felt its ambience, began to react to its aura, he racked his memory. Where had he felt this strange combination of cool detachment and implacable protectiveness? Abruptly a memory surfaced: Anders, telling him of his days as a Warden, being trapped in the Fade, helping save a town full of cursed souls from a Pride demon in human guise. He'd spoken of a shining warrior spirit who'd challenged the demon to single combat. It was Anders' first meeting with...

_JUSTICE!_

Hawke was so staggered that his concealment actually slipped for a moment, but the combatants were all so focused on each other that none noticed Hawke's brief but total loss of control.

He was so torn. Part of him wanted to charge in, seize the lad and rip him right out of the Fade, now, before the worst could happen. Part of him wanted to attack the thing that had possessed his beloved, blast it with all the might at his command, now when it was distracted by fighting the strongest type of demon. He might stand a chance of destroying Justice for good.

But another part of him wanted to seize Justice, until it had shared everything it knew of _his_ Anders; hold onto the spirit and never let it go: because that would be the closest he could ever come to a reunion with his lost love.

It was a measure of the man Hawke had become, that he restrained himself from doing any of those things. _Here and now isn't about me. It's about my Apprentice, and whether he can handle himself in the Fade without another mage's help._ He stared intently at Justice. _I can always deal with you later._

'Later', as it turned out, was the wrong choice to make. Hawke's suspicion of that grew as he saw the first explosion of Spirit Healing burst from Anders, reviving Justice so thoroughly that the demon was swiftly slain. He watched, absolutely stunned, as Anders sprinted over, colliding with the armored figure in a hug that tackled them both off their feet. He saw the naked youth plaster himself along the toppled warrior, laughing with relief, and take off the helm.

For an utterly unprecedented second time, Hawke lost control of his concealment, blindsided by absolute shock at the sight of the one he'd ached for, for long lonely years.

But no matter how much that face looked like his love, Hawke knew it was not. Not with those brilliant, blighted pools of pure Fade energy where his lover's amber eyes had been.

No, now Hawke thought about it, the resemblance was not to _his_ Anders, but to the possessed vessel of Justice.

Belated anger boiled up at that thought. _Justice has no right to keep that face! __He has no claim on Anders anymore! Anders chose to die, so he could be free once more! I gave up everything to give him his last wish._

Even though Hawke shook with sudden rage, bare of all concealment, he might as well not have been there at all. Just like that, they were kissing, and it was beautiful and bitterly wrong and abruptly Hawke could stand no more.

_I was right, it isn't about me. _The cold realisation crept up Hawke's spine, as he witnessed the soul-deep bonding and the creation of a Spirit Healer. _Nothing ever was about me - or us - in the first place. I've been thinking of the man I loved all along as __**my**__ Anders, but Anders was never mine, no matter what he said. He was always Justice's._

_I would have loved him all my life and beyond its ending, but now even Justice has cast him aside, taken another eager vessel under his wing. The man I loved has gone beyond the Fade, and I will always be alone._

_Always._

In the frozen wasteland of Hawke's heart, he could feel a bitter new determination growing, hard and sharp as an icicle.

_You call yourself Justice,_ he glared at the silver spirit sprawled beneath the golden boy, _but controlling even one life was pure injustice._ The vow resonated through Hawke's aching soul. _You will never take another mage as you took him!_

With that, Hawke reached out, closing his power around his Apprentice - _still __mine__, still __mine__!_ - and forcing him to follow Hawke out of the Fade.

* * *

"Ughhh..."

"Breathe."

The shadows solidified into shapes, and Anders gazed up into Hawke's troubled face, bending over him. "You..." there was something he knew he had to say. "For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you." The words came out of nowhere, blindsiding Anders with a powerful sense of deja vu: deeply disturbing, because he'd never said them before, and yet... The following words spilled from him in a sigh, inevitable as his next breath, "It was nice to be happy ... for a while." Anders blinked, startled. _Wait, what? Where in the Void did all that come from?_ But his surprise was nothing compared to the look of utter shock on the First Enchanter's suddenly white face.

Without a word, Hawke whirled and strode away; long, bounding strides on the verge of breaking into a run.

On anyone else, Anders would have called it fleeing. But everyone knew the General of the Revolution had balls of solid silverite. _He wouldn't run from anything._

_Would he?_

The sun was so bright after the shadows of the demon's attack; Anders lay back on the grass and let his eyes close. He felt dizzy, disoriented, as if he'd awoken not just from his first Fadewalk, but from a dream that had lasted a lifetime. His mind whirled with a bewildering maelstrom of memories, images, sounds, and every moment more emerged from the depths of his being. Anders' hands massaged his temples with slight pulses of healing as he struggled to remember, to make sense of it all... There was more to the words he'd spoken, there was a memory, an image, there...

They were in a courtyard, he and Hawke - no, First Enchanter - no, _Hawke_, young, hair and beard solid black, a splash of blood bright across his nose where his scar should be. Anders' hands dangled empty and useless, his staff lay discarded on the ground, and he could barely think for the sorrow and grief that burned in him, too painful to be contained. And then that agony was joined by another: the blade, sliding between his ribs, piercing his heart. Blood poured down his back, and his strength bled away with it; dizziness took him and he fell, lay curled on his side. All the while, familiar healing magic surged, in an instant, insistent response to the wound. He knew where he was injured, knew he could still heal himself, but he was holding himself back, fighting down every blind animal instinct that urged him to live.

Because he'd been hurt too much, deeper than any knife could reach.

He wanted it all to be over. He wanted to be free. And he could never be free, in life.

Tears blurred his last sight as the darkness came down... _Garrett__!_

A sob rocked Anders' chest and he drew a breath as raw as if it was his very first. He jolted up to sit, shaking all over, scrubbing at his streaming eyes. He blinked wet lashes, stared up at the sky, surprised by the brilliant blue morning: something in him expected to see red clouds and ashes falling like rain.

His heart hammered. He reached inside himself with all his power: familiar Creation magic and the new might of Spirit Healing. For long moments he sat silent, immersed in the wondrous workings of a living body, basking in the full knowledge of what a rare, beautiful gift it was, to _live._

In the gardens of Kinloch Hold, the towering statue of the Liberator stretched toward the sun.

Anders stared up at it. He felt like he was seeing it for the first time, seeing the care with which the face had been carved, the precision and perfection of that marble portrait. He was dazed by the peaceful beauty of the gardens, the softness of the grass beneath him, as if he'd just come from that stony courtyard, with its sky like blood and its air thick with smoke and ash._ The Chantry__...__ The explosion__...__ The sacrifice__..._

_My sacrifice. Wait! What have I done? Did__...__ did I do all that? _Anders clutched his head, fingertips rubbing energy into his temples, reaching for calm. It was all so confusing, all these thoughts, these memories, new knowledge jostling for space in his mind, beside his familiar, safe existence.

_I started the revolution. I made them all face the injustice. I had to do it! No-one else ever would!_

_... I.. but I haven't done anything! I didn't do it!_

_It needed to be done. I removed the chance of compromise, because there is no compromise. I had to make the final sacrifice for every mage alive, and every mage yet to be born. Justice demanded no less._

_Was that justice? Justice. My White Knight, he said he was Justice. Who is he? Who am I? What's happening to me? What happened afterwards? I don't remember anything else._

_I died._

_Yes. That's when I died._

_Garrett killed me._

'_For what it's worth, I'm glad it's you.' _

_...I was glad. Because I loved him._

_Garrett!_

Anders stumbled to his feet, and ran back to the tower.

His old Apprentice's staff lay forgotten in the grass. Whoever he was now, whatever happened next, he would never need it again.


	3. Part III: The Mage

**Part III: The Mage**

"Hawke! Wait!"

Anders ran after Hawke, through the corridor and up the staircase. With new memories, even the Tower, his home, seemed different: shadowed with memories of a grim past. It was shocking to remember for the first time that Templars were posted at every door, and doubled sentries at the entrance. _Sadistic bastards. If I ran past them like this, I'd be bloody lucky if all they did was Smite me senseless._ And that storage room around the corner, it wasn't always used to store food and supplies. Anders had slept there for many years, him and twenty other apprentices on narrow cots. _No privacy, no quiet._ Though he knew now that there was such a thing as too much quiet, too much privacy. There was the single, dank cell down in the basement, where Anders had spent the rest of his years in the Circle. That cell was so private that no-one but the Templars knew what happened to him; so quiet that only the Templars could hear him screaming.

_Brr. Not again! _Anders shuddered, shoulders hunched under the unfamiliar weight of a suffering _he_ hadn't endured ...or had he? He snarled, shook his head in a fit of impatience with his own confusion, hit himself with Haste and sprinted up the stairs. His magical reserves, already strained after the Fadewalk, were further depleted, but there was no way he was going to go on wrestling alone with the mess inside his head.

Racing through the library, Anders almost knocked over a pile of books on the ever-cautious Enchanter Levyn. Then, in that moment of staring and scrabbling after books and stammering apologies, the grumpy old sod wasn't just Enchanter Levyn anymore. _Andraste's arse, the years haven't been kind to poor Jowan!_

_Jowan. A Tower runaway and an apostate, like me. An escape short of being executed as a maleficar._ Anders now knew for certain that the 'rough youth' with which Enchanter 'Levyn' always excused the scars on his wrists, was an understatement.

Anders bit his tongue and went back to running, before he could say anything out loud. The words that sprung from his past had already driven away one Enchanter too many.

When he climbed the last staircase and arrived at the floor where the First Enchanter's office was, he paused to catch his breath, slumped against the corridor wall.

Anders' determined pursuit of the First Enchanter all the way through the Tower was fueled by utter confusion: frantic, verging on panic. As clearly as Anders remembered his true name, he could remember loving Garrett Hawke. But the Hawke he'd loved had been even younger than himself. Now Hawke's hair was threaded with premature grey, and the man was in charge of the biggest Circle in Thedas, and in charge of Anders' lessons and teachers and the whole Tower.

And yet, Anders now knew exactly what Hawke looked like naked, and how to make him beg in bed, and they _loved _each other, they'd made promises to each other, and Hawke had never broken a promise to him. Hawke had killed him, because Anders had needed him to, had begged it of him. Anders couldn't imagine wanting to die now, but he could remember clearly how it had felt to want to die then: to be desperate enough to ask the man he loved to kill him. Because he'd be merciful. Because he'd make it quick.

_Maker!_ Anders had so many questions that desperately needed answering. And Hawke was the only one who had any answers.

For the first time in his life, Anders felt like an impostor, wearing the Liberator's pauldrons: a hastily-sketched portrait of a dead hero. All his life, Anders had always seen himself as unique and special, destined for great things, unlike any other: except maybe a bit like the Liberator. Now suddenly he _was_ the Liberator, but a mere shadow, who hadn't done anything extraordinary with his life. _And Hawke... how could I not see it? He was nice to me when he didn't have to be. With Ser Pounce and all… wait._ Anders blinked. _Even Ser Pounce isn't only mine!_ The original Ser Pounce-A-Lot was left far away and decades ago at Amaranthine, and that loss felt as bitter as if it happened yesterday. But the next moment it was overwhelmed by an even greater sense of loss.

_I thought Hawke gave me Pounce because he liked **me**, but it wasn't me he liked, it was him! Earlier me. GAH! It doesn't matter! What matters is, all along, I was nothing to Hawke, nothing but a reminder of the man he loved and lost. He never let on, not once. Never so much as a hint. All these years! How could he live like that?_

His face twisted with anguish and betrayal, Anders strode up to the First Enchanter's office and pounded on the door with both fists. "Hawke!" It came out harsh as a crow's croak, his throat was so raw with unshed tears. "Lemme in!"

There was a long pause. And the sort of growl that, just the night before, would have sent him fleeing down the stairs. "Go away!"

But now, far from fleeing, Anders was sorely tempted to blast the door to cinders, and so what if he'd left his staff behind? What sort of a Healer would he be if he couldn't cope with burned hands? His hands lifted, curved and ready to channel a torrent of flame, but after more thought his fingers closed into fists instead, and he pounded again at the offending door, following up with a couple of hard kicks.

The door swung open. And Hawke was right there, still as white as chalk, staring at him as though he'd seen a ghost. Suddenly, Hawke seemed so old and worn and tired that the sight of him felt like a punch to the gut, even though on another level Hawke was still the same First Enchanter Anders had known for most of his life.

For an endless, agonising moment Anders just stared at him: no longer merely the mentor he admired, now also the man he loved. As the silence between them stretched, Anders' heart hammered painfully against the cage of his ribs, just like his hands had hammered against the bars of that bloody isolation cell. _He looks as though it hurts him to even look at me._

"I can leave if you like!" he blurted out, startling himself, though a moment later he thought, _Perhaps leaving will solve things._

Hawke gave a tiny flinch at the abrupt outburst after the long silence, but his sombre features never changed, and his voice was steady when he murmured "Is that what you want?"

"I…" Anders shook his head, breath catching as he bit his lower lip. "I don't know what I want. I don't know anything anymore." _I know too much now! Much too much too much!_

Over the resurgent roar of confusion in Anders' mind, he could hear Hawke's faltering words, falling one by one from his lips, like blood dripping from an open wound. "I had hoped… after all this time… that I'd remade this place into something worthwhile, a haven of learning. But I know you - he," Hawke ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing the rare grey back from his temples, and he looked just as lost as Anders felt, "…Anders always hated Circles."

Anders' head started shaking, helplessly. "I… I can't…" He took one step across the threshold, seized Hawke's shoulders in a clawed, frantic grip, and buried his face in the curve of Hawke's neck, leaning into him as if seeking shelter from a storm. The feel of Hawke's skin, the scent of his body, was at once completely strange and achingly, poignantly familiar. Anders closed his eyes, and breathed, slow and deep, trying to still the shudders that rippled unpredictably through his body.

* * *

The wild hope that Hawke didn't dare let himself believe in, wrestled with his mistrust for anything touched by the spirit of Justice. But this poor lad couldn't have sounded less like that blighted spirit if he'd tried. There was none of that terse, self-contained drive, that inhuman, singular focus: instead, he was so confused he could barely string two words together. And Hawke had dragged him out of the Fade as fast as he could. What with everything that had happened in Hawke's life, he was hardly a religious man, but he still found himself hoping, to the Maker, to anyone or anything that might be listening, _Please. Let it be soon enough that he's not possessed._

And then Anders hurled himself at him, seized him in a hard-handed grip, burrowed his face into the crook of his neck and just stood there, shivering against him. Hawke froze in shock, his mind racing. This couldn't've felt more odd. The lad may have looked so very similar to the man Hawke loved, but standing as close as this, Hawke was aware for the first time of so many ways they were different. He'd fallen into the habit of searching his self-sacrificing lover for hints of exhaustion no matter how well he masked them, but now he felt positively besieged by youthful energy. He remembered, as clearly as yesterday, the smell of dust and dirt and the smoke of cheap candles, healing herbs and poultices over faint, old sweat. Now, he inhaled lyrium and fresh grass and dew from this morning's Test, and underneath that, a mixture of cedar cologne and cat. He recalled a tatty patchwork coat and an unwashed copper-gold mane; he saw bare, freckled arms and a blond bed-head. The earlobe that used to drive his lover wild when he bit it, had held the tiny lump of a long-healed piercing; the ear brushing now against his throat was hung with an earring. Hawke couldn't see it, not with the way the lad was leaning into him, but he knew the earring was as gold as his hair, as gold as the rest of his hidden piercings.

Physically, the two of them weren't the same. But inside, where it really counted… _Is it even possible? How else could he have known? The exact words he said… when I…_

Abruptly Hawke's arms clamped around the shivering body pressed against him, held it close and tight, with a sudden, wild strength. He nuzzled into the tousled hair, husked through the hope and loneliness choking him, "Anders…"

In Hawke's arms, the shivering stilled, the tension eased. The bowed head lifted, and eyes - blue, not amber, but purely human and bright only with tears - gazed deeply into his own. "I remember falling in love with you… No mage I know has ever dared to fall in love…" His gaze grew distant for an instant, and then it was bright and present once more, and a slight smile, wistful and bittersweet, curved his lips. "…with a First Enchanter. This is the rule I will most cherish breaking."

The reprise of those well-remembered words was too clear for Hawke to ever misunderstand. Relief hit him with a force greater than all his Force magic, and it was his turn to lean into Anders, his arms tightening fiercely, as he allowed himself to believe in a miracle. _I wasn't mistaken, I'm not going mad, I don't know how but it's true, it's real, it's him… he's ALIVE!_ "Oh love." Hawke might have sobbed, he might simply have cried out aloud, he didn't care, because all at once the dam burst and he couldn't see past the tears in his eyes and he was kissing _**his**__ Anders_ and it was frantic and messy and perfect.

Anders was kissing him back, slower, deep and tender, all soft lips and warm sighs and "Yes."

"Missed you," Hawke whispered, diving into another breathtaking kiss. "…so much. Maker!" It passed like air from one mouth to the other. He was lightheaded, dizzy; his heart was pounding hard enough to hurt. None of it mattered. "Love you…" Which one of them said it? Was it Hawke or was Anders speaking Hawke's mind first?

At last, a cold breeze blowing through the corridor past them both recalled Hawke to his senses, just enough to step backward into his rooms, drawing Anders with him. He slammed the door behind them with an instinctive flick of telekinesis.

Anders jumped a little at the slam and huffed a laugh. Hawke's hands slid around to cup Anders' skull, ruffling his golden hair. When Anders leaned in, heavylidded, seeking another kiss, Hawke held him away, cradling his head in the palms of his hands: the only one he'd ever loved. He gazed at the miracle before him in wonder, and couldn't hold back the beaming, wondering smile he could feel dawning on his face. He'd had far too little cause to smile, for far too long.

_**My**__ Anders._ And suddenly Hawke was afraid to say that name, as if speaking it aloud would wake him from a beautiful dream and leave him stranded alone once again, in bleak reality. "You're here. How?" _How can I be so lucky? How can I possibly deserve this?_

Anders was leaning into his touch, a soft, lopsided smile curving the corner of his lips against Hawke's palm. "I don't know," he shrugged, too slightly to disturb Hawke's touch, his gaze never leaving Hawke's eyes. "I didn't remember any of this, until the Test, and then I just _knew_. All at once. After my Knight -" his brows drew together. "Justice -"

_Justice._

Suspicion churned in Hawke's gut. _Justice did this. Whatever this is. If not possession, then what?_ His spine abruptly turned to ice. _What if Justice forced memories of his last host onto my apprentice? What if this is a trick, and he is just an overwhelmed stranger and not my Anders?_

It took all of his control not to freeze, not to flinch. But even all of his control was not enough.

"What is it?" Anders reached out, fingertips stroking slow circles at Hawke's temples, sending gentle tendrils of healing magic inward, _just like he_ - _like my Anders_, Hawke reminded himself, - _always used to do._ That tender touch was so reminiscent of Hawke's every desperate lonely wish, it was all he could do not to abandon his suspicions and just give himself over to the bliss.

"Did I say something wrong? Please," A concerned blue gaze searched Hawke's face, "I just want to help."

"It's all right," Hawke murmured, forcing down the bitter chorus of guilt he'd lived with for so many years - _If it's not really him, that'd be the ultimate justice for me. I don't deserve this joy. Not when I killed him._ - and steeling himself for the next battle in a lifetime of war. _I'm bloody well going to find out about whatever sick scheme Justice is planning, and then I'll put a stop to it. And to him. If I have to._

He turned to press a kiss into the cup of Anders' palm, then captured his wrists in a light, fingertip grip, taking one regretful step backwards, and letting go of his one true desire with a final sigh. "I just remembered something important. Today's an extremely busy day for you." He gave a lopsided grin and hoped it seemed genuine, "What with choosing your new staff and moving to new quarters," he actually managed a smirk as he added, "not to mention all the partying tonight."

It must've worked. Anders snorted rueful amusement. "Maker, that's right, I did pass, didn't I? Never thought I'd be so pissed off at my own Passing Party. Do I have to go?"

Hawke arched his eyebrow. "Never heard a student say _that_ before…"

"Well, if I have to attend a party," Anders added in a slow and smoky tone, "I hope it's a very small one; and I definitely hope you're there, to give me a private, personal demonstration of the best way to celebrate. I bet you haven't lost your touch," His head tilted in a smile which was as charming as it was carefree, "And it's not as though I've got a prudish passenger anymore to hold me back."

Hawke had never been so tempted. "I'll be there to congratulate you," he promised. "And the Amells as well," he added firmly, "as First Enchanter."

"Garrett!" Anders groaned and thunked his forehead against Hawke's shoulder, "That's no fun."

Try as he might, Hawke couldn't tell whether it was his student or his Anders speaking. His Anders was never carefree - or free - enough to utter such protests frivolously. When he did groan Hawke's name, like that, it was in frustration over being distracted from his work. His Cause. And then Hawke would just try his best to make Anders moan his name again, in a completely different sort of frustration.

He didn't quite know how to answer back. _Between the two of us, I was always the fun one before. Maker, maybe I've just grown old._

"Being First Enchanter is 'no fun'," Hawke finally said, settling into a well-worn role. And yet, he bowed his head to press a kiss into the soft hair at Anders' temple. When Anders straightened up and gave him a heartstopping smile, Hawke was even able to put aside his worries enough to give Anders a genuine smile in return. "You'd better go," he reminded him gently, "before the Apprentices and the Amells and their Guardians all start turning the Tower upside-down looking for you."

Anders turned around in the doorway to give him one last look, before he left.

Hawke's eye was caught by movement: a tiny shred of black featherdown from Anders' pauldrons, curling and drifting midair in the stray breeze from the closed door. As he was left alone once more, Hawke's hand lifted of its own accord, and he waited until the delicate filament settled gently onto his palm.

* * *

Down and down the stairs Anders went, frowning at every turn. _Something's wrong._

He may not have been all that close with the First Enchanter, but he certainly knew _Garrett_ well enough to be sure that he'd been upset by something Anders had said. And judging by the timing of Garrett's reaction, whatever had upset him had something to do with Justice.

Anders' lips thinned in an aggrieved grimace, though the next moment he shook his head, snorting in wry amusement. _Looks like Justice doesn't even have to be invited to the party, to be a complete cockblock! Bloody __**unjust**__ of him: it's not as though he really enjoys cock himself!_

His mind kept coming back to Hawke, even as he spent the next hour in the Armory, going through the Tower's collection of staves, looking for one to suit him.

Even though his hands, experienced only with a plain Apprentice's staff, had no muscle memory of handling any others, his mind recalled owning and wielding many staves. There was a staff that he'd come across shortly after escaping the Tower: all silverite, with an aptitude for fire spells. They said it had belonged to a Magister of Tevinter, where the mages were all free, and no templars had dared to imprison them. That staff lent Anders the strength and the resolve to find himself as a mage: not an apostate or an outcast or a runaway, but a man with the rights of any other man, who deserved to live his life, to choose his path, the way he saw fit. He remembered clutching that staff to himself and thinking 'So what if they call me an apostate? I don't need their fucking approval to exist!' He'd never let go of that solid, steady resolve; he kept running, no matter what. No matter where his phylactery was held or by whom, no matter how many wanted him imprisoned or Tranquil or dead.

There was a dragon-headed staff of red steel, chosen by Justice for its ease of wielding and its spirit damage. Freedom's Call, Anders had named it. And it had seen him through many tough years in Kirkwall, under the templars' upturned noses, working always for a freedom whose call only he could hear.

There was Garrett's spear-staff, and Anders had lifted and tried wielding it a few times, just out of curiosity. It didn't suit his casting, and he couldn't even rest it on the ground without worrying about dulling the sharp tip, but Garrett seemed to have no such issues. He was the type to get up close and personal in his duels, all crushing force and slashing blade.

But of course none of those staves were available in the Ferelden Circle's Armory.

In the end Anders had chosen a staff with a slender core of white birch, protected by grey iron thickly carved with runes. Its unusual length fit his tall build, its balance was a good match for the swirling moves he used to gather and direct his energies, and its inclination toward electrical spells suited his fondness for shooting lightning at fools. _I suppose I'll have to watch myself in a thunderstorm, carrying a long iron rod, but that's what living dangerously and embracing risk is all about. A lightning bolt or ten? Ha! Nothing a mage and a Healer like me can't handle!_ He took a stance in front of a full-length mirror and flowed smoothly through a swift sequence of combat moves, admiring the whirl and hiss of the tall staff. He swung into a casting position and froze, giving his reflection a wicked grin over the spiked staffpoint leveled to blast an imaginary foe, and feeling like the Hero of Ferelden himself.

He grounded the staff and squared his shoulders, then tried a steady, dignified walk. The iron heel rang against the flagstones with a satisfying, almost musical clink. _Aww yeaaah! Much better than that boring bit of plain wood!_

Anders enjoyed himself making a stately promenade out of the Armory, strolling leisurely through the corridor, practicing some flourishes with the imposing rune-carved, ironclad length in his hand. And if he was hoping desperately for an apprentice or two to pass him on the way up, well, who wouldn't've done the same? His lovely long weapon deserved all the admiring stares in the world!

It was by pure chance that he passed the storage rooms on the way to his old Apprentice quarters, and had heard a very familiar voice talking with the Quartermaster. With an incentive like that, Anders couldn't help taking a small detour, and having a nice little rest in a convenient alcove that he now knew used to be a templar guard post. _Funny, how ex-guard posts turn out to be ideal places to listen unseen. That curving corridor makes for perfect acoustics. Why,_ Anders' lip curled in a sneer, _you'd almost think this place was purpose-built to be a prison, ever since the Avvars laid the foundation stone!_

The sneer faded into an absorbed expression as Anders listened. _Lyrium._ Hawke was definitely requisitioning another dose. _Well, that's odd._ Anders frowned pensively. _No-one else is due to take the Test this week. Why would he need to Fadewalk again so soon? It's bloody tiring even once a day._ His eyes narrowed. _Garrett Hawke, what in the Void are you up to now?_ He peered round the edge of the alcove, at the formidable figure of the First Enchanter.

That was when the final pieces of the puzzle clicked into place, and suddenly it all made sense.

_Justice!_

_Of course! He always did worry about the effect Justice had on me._ Anders winced. _Not that he didn't have reason to,_ he conceded.

Anders' lips thinned as he listened to Garrett leaving with the additional dose. _He's going to see Justice behind my back, I'd bet my left bollock! The secretive sod couldn't even talk to me about it first! What am I, a helpless Apprentice to keep an eye on and keep out of trouble? _

_Bugger that! I'm **not** an Apprentice! Not anymore! I can bloody well take care of myself!_

With a genuine mage's staff to verify his new status, surely no one, not even Owain, would question his motives, if Anders went to him with a request. A request like, say, a dose of lyrium. Purely for research purposes, of course.

Anders considered all the possibilities, and bared his teeth in a slow, determined smile.

_We'll just see what you've got to say for yourself, ser First Enchanter!_

* * *

When Hawke opened his eyes in the Fade, he was standing on in the midst of a rocky, forbidding landscape. The Black City floated directly overhead, blotting out much of the foggy, indistinct Fadelight. Replacing that shadowless yellow-gray glow was the blue flare and crash of an otherworldly thunderstorm. Lightning cracked the sky, striking the stony peaks around him in bursts of power that bristled the hair all over his body, but never quite came close to striking him.

Hawke grinned ferally. The savage display of power might have been meant as a warning, but it was the perfect backdrop for his current mood.

"Justice!" Hawke roared, voice echoing through the tumult of the storm. "Show yourself!"

A bolt of lightning struck the ground before him with a blinding, deafening blast, and in the ringing darkness it left behind, there stood a knight limned in silver light. However, this time the shining plate armor was incomplete: the helm Anders had removed had not been replaced. "Garrett Hawke," Justice intoned with ceremonial calm, studying him with cool lyrium eyes glowing from his lover's face. "Greetings."

Hawke actually felt a moment of relief at being confronted by his adversary, because if Justice was still in the Fade, he surely couldn't have possessed Anders. But Hawke needed much more reassurance than that.

As he had done all his life, Hawke faced this latest challenge head on. "What have you done to my Apprentice?" he snarled.

"To Anders?" Eyebrows drew together in a concerned look that was achingly familiar, but Hawke forcefully shoved the brief pang of emotion down. There were far more important things at stake. "I have 'done' nothing 'to' him!" Justice cried. "All I do, I do _for_ him. I serve him, as is only just. I give him my protection in his dreams, and my power in his spells, freely."

"Protection!" Hawke scoffed. "And what will you take in return? His mind? His life?"

"Nothing!"

Hawke barked something so harsh and bitter it couldn't be called a laugh. "You expect me to believe you're not going to possess someone, when you've done it before?"

Justice's head lifted, bridling; the gesture of affront another one familiar from Anders. But the spirit's voice was calm and resolute as he continued, "I have learned from that experience. The circumstances that forced me to it will not happen again. Thanks to Anders, and also thanks to you," he added, inclining his head in a stately gesture of acknowledgement, "our union has righted an ancient injustice. For that, I am more grateful than I can express, but such a close coexistence is not something I would ever wish to repeat…"

"I saw you!" Hawke interrupted harshly, baring his teeth in a snarl of jealous fury, "Kissing my Apprentice," his voice lowered to a vicious hiss, "seducing him! It was pure luck I got him out of there before you could…"

"Are you or are you not a mage?" Justice overrode him in turn. "I know such things are rare, but surely you have heard of the bond between a Spirit Healer and the Fade spirit who powers his spells? As for the… kissing," he added with a spirit's slight impatience with the pleasures of the flesh, "he was the one who initiated it, not I. Obviously, the Spirit Healer bond took that form, because to him a kiss was the suitable symbolic gesture." Justice eyed Hawke coolly. "You are far more knowledgeable than I, on the significance of kisses. Is that not so?"

Hawke scowled, trying to retain the righteous fury of a moment ago, but the damnable thing was, Justice had a point. Hawke remembered very clearly that Anders' head had bowed to Justice. And the Fade-blue flare of the spell Anders had used to revive Justice was unquestionably more than simple Creation magic. "A Spirit Healer bond. Is that all you seek?" he grumbled.

Justice tilted his head, another tiny gesture that brought back poignant memories. The spirit's voice was oddly gentle, "Mortals and spirits may visit each others' worlds, Garrett Hawke, but neither will thrive for long outside of their natural realm. I will take nothing from him, this I swear. My only intent is to give."

"But why? Why are you after my Apprentice? Obviously he knew you, even before his Final Test."

"I am not 'after' him," Justice frowned. "I am repaying the debt I owe him."

Hawke's eyes narrowed. "What debt?"

"My debt to Anders." The bare head lowered, red-gold hair falling over his brow, shrouding his face. "It is a debt I can never fully repay. He gave me his body, to save me from being imprisoned in a rotting corpse, in the mortal realm. He gave his life, to provide a martyr to a just cause, to protect an entire city from unjust retribution. These are gifts beyond any recompense. But it is only just of me to do what little is in my power to show my gratitude for his sacrifices."

Hawke swallowed; abruptly it was hard to speak. A thorny knot of hope and grief ached in him. At last, he husked, "_His_ sacrifices?"

Shining eyes widened, familiar lips parted in something almost like shock. "Of course they were his sacrifices!" Justice cried. "He is the same soul! _You,_ who knew him, who loved him - how can you not _know_ this?"

Shame and loneliness and distrust and worry wrung Hawke; caught in that agony, he snapped, "You could have just given him your memories! You said it yourself: you shared his body, you knew everything he knew!"

Justice rocked back on his heels as though Hawke had punched him in the face. There was a lightning-intense flare of outrage in the spirit's eyes, before he faced Hawke with a steely, measured forbearance.

"What possible reason could I have to commit such a heinous crime?" Justice whispered, mystified. "Against the one man who has done the most for my cause?" A sombre, steady stare. "Or against the one man Anders has devoted himself to?" Justice shook his head. "_No,_ Garrett Hawke! If ever I deceived him, or deceived you, in such a vile way, about such a vital matter, that would be the ultimate injustice! It would negate everything I am."

"Justice has a point."

_Anders!_ Hawke whirled, and there he was, a blond, bright figure, the same that Hawke had just let out of his office. Anders strolled casually toward them, as calmly as though he Fadewalked every day for fun. An unfamiliar staff swung in his hand, tapping against the rocky ground. "He knew how very much I _hated_ going behind your back." There was that familiar headtilt again as he eyed Hawke. "I wonder," he added in too-light tones, "how did you feel about going behind _my_ back?"

"Stop that!" Hawke rounded on Anders. "You're _not_ comparing _your_ plot to destroy the chantry with…"

"With what?" Anders snapped, unflinching in the face of Hawke's harangue. "What exactly _were_ you thinking? Were you going to duel a Fade spirit? In the Fade itself? Oh, and not just any spirit, one who's had years to study every weakness in your fighting style through my eyes? And for what? Winner takes _all_?" He spread his arms, making it clear what 'all' was at stake. His smile was bright and brittle. "It's so nice to feel like a trophy, instead of a man you can bring yourself to _talk to_, before you go storming off on an insane quest that can get you _killed!_"

"Like _you_ did?" Hawke fired back with the speed of anger. The next instant, realisation caught up with him, and he could have bitten his tongue off.

A hideous silence fell.

Anders didn't say a word. His expression said it all.

_You should know. You're the one who killed me._

He disappeared, as abruptly as a lightning strike. The Fade had never looked so empty and bleak as it did when Anders was gone.

Hawke stood staring into the stormy darkness, his face blank, his being hollow and numb with shock. "Maker," he breathed distantly, "What have I done?"

"A grave injustice."

Hawke fired a truly poisonous glare at the spirit, before he left the Fade with the same aggrieved speed.

* * *

Stretched out on the bed, Anders jolted back to the waking world, his gasp loud in the quiet of his unfamiliar new rooms. The suite was much more spacious than the room he'd lived in as an Apprentice, but right now that just meant that the place looked emptier. He sat up, moving as stiffly as if he'd been asleep all night. His eyes were wet and there was a dull ache, in his throat, somewhere deep under his breastbone; and when he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his hands were shaking. _Side-effects,_ Anders rationalised dully. _That's all it is. I suppose two doses of lyrium in a day will do that to you._

Noticing he was awake, Ser Pounce-A-Lot bounded up onto the bed and leaned into Anders' side, rubbing his head along Anders' arm, purring loud enough to drive the silence away.

Anders uncurled just enough to gather the ginger tabby gently into his lap. The cat settled down at once, kneading at Anders' bare chest. Anders bowed his head over silky fur and simply absorbed the warmth. The cat nuzzled up, pink nosetip cool against Anders', and kept purring at the contact. Anders held his old friend close, desperately trying to find solace in the warm, soothing rumble of undemanding affection.

* * *

Hawke paced in his office, back and forth, prowling restless as a caged panther.

_I need to find to Anders, he told himself. Right away!_

He shook his head sharply, annoyed with himself.

_Wait! I just tried tackling a problem head-on, and look how well __**that**__ turned out! No, I suppose I'd better not rush into this. What in the Void can I say to him? Better think things through, for once..._ Hawke squared his shoulders and unclenched his fists. His jaw was tight with worry. _Breathe._

_**A grave injustice...**_ Justice's quiet verdict kept echoing in his mind, over and over. _What have I done to him?_

_I need to find him! I need him!_

He strode to the door, but as he touched the handle, he paused. _By now, Anders must've moved out of his Apprentice quarters and into one of the Mage's suites. Or... for all I know, he could be anywhere by now. He could've gone for a swim to cool off, or stormed down to the pub to drown his sorrows._

_I've got no idea where he is._

_But he knows perfectly well where to find me._ Hawke winced, but there was no way to avoid the inevitable conclusion: _If he wanted to see me, he'd be pounding on my door already. Again._

Hawke listened at the door. Then he eased it open and peered up and down the corridor.

Not a soul was in sight.

_If I tear through the Tower looking for him, when he obviously doesn't want to see me, would that be treating him like an Apprentice?_

Hawke stood, straining his ears, hearing nothing, nothing; until eventually the accusing emptiness of the corridor drove him back into the more familiar solitude of his rooms. Habit led him to draw the door closed behind himself. Then he turned and faced the closed door, and when it failed to be kicked open by a whirlwind in mage's robes, then Hawke squeezed his eyes shut and slowly leaned forward until his forehead touched the cool, solid wood.

_Oh, Maker. How could I say that to him? What can I do now?_

* * *

In Kirkwall, with the curtains tightly closed, the Amell estate resembled a tomb, hushed and dusty, and dark, always dark. Even Dog's rare barks sounded hollow.

Worry was the constant thread that wound through Anders' days and nights. Worry smelled like stagnant air and dust, and the musty smell filled the spacious, high-ceilinged rooms, clung to Anders' clothes, followed him even to Garrett's library, where he'd sneak in to borrow some ink and parchment, and leave a hastily penned revision of the Manifesto in return.

Hawke was too well-known for Anders' peace of mind. Alone, Hawke was admired enough that he could stride right under the templars' noses, amble in and out of the Viscount's office as if they were old friends, drop the Amell name shamelessly at all the nobles' best parties.

Alone, Anders was self-effacing enough that he could have stayed hidden in the filthy, forgotten depths of Darktown. But together, they were organized Apostates, and that was enough to bring them under the templars' surveillance.

Anders made sure the curtains to Hawke's mansion were always drawn, shutting out the prying eyes of the neighbours, or of templar spies. Whenever Merrill visited, Anders would haul her inside as fast as possible, then vent his worry in angry outbursts every time she "forgot" to leave her staff back at the Alienage. They all had to be careful! They couldn't afford the attention a staffbearing elf could draw.

"Stop inviting her here!" he snapped at Garrett after she left. "Her carelessness will bring the templars down on our heads!"

"If the templars wanted to make trouble, they would've done so before now! Knight-Captain Cullen saw me casting, and he hasn't done a thing about it!"

"Yet!" Anders scoffed.

Garrett sighed. "How many times do I have to tell you, you're safe with me! Now for Andraste's sake, stop shouting at Merrill! How inconspicuous will she be if you drive her out of here in tears?"

"Forget Merrill!" Anders bristled with irritation. "There are more important things to worry about! Like your life! Cullen's a templar, he's just like all the rest of them! He spared you _then_, because it suited him _then_. There's a word for mages who trust templars with their lives: Corpses!"

"Well that means I'm a miracle, since I was apparently fathered by a corpse!"

"If you keep on like this, it'll be another 'miracle' if you're not a corpse yourself, before the year's out!"

_And it was a miracle!_ Anders thought as he surfaced from the memory. For a while he lay there, alone in his strange new mage quarters, just thinking of Hawke: carrying on the rebellion Anders had started, living through all those years of battles, becoming the First Enchanter, remaking the Tower from a prison into a school. _He's still as far from a corpse as ever,_ Anders thought, then added instinctively, _thank the Maker!_ before his thoughts faltered to a halt, leaving him lost in a tangle of emotions. The cold, salty waves of pain and anger ebbed at last. In their wake only love remained, fragile and determined as the tender roots capable of shattering the hardest stone.

Anders pressed his forehead into his familiar pillow and sighed. After all this new insight into Hawke, into his own life with Hawke, Anders felt as though the new memories had added years of aging to his mind. No matter the state of his body, his mind insisted that he was older than eighteen.

Anders lay on his side curled around Ser Pounce. The cat stretched in the makeshift nest and batted lightly at the ring in Anders' ear with a velvet-soft paw. Anders snorted quietly and Ser Pounce batted again, a gentle touch brushing against Anders' cheek.

Anders glanced down at him through wet eyelashes, and one corner of his mouth twitched in a wan smile.

_Cats make everything better._

Ser Pounce-a-Lot answered with a satisfied purr.


	4. Part IV: First Enchanter

**Part IV: First Enchanter**

In the Tower's gardens, the Passing Party was in full swing. Enchanters with talent in Fire and Lightning cast into the air, with dramatic flourishes of their staves. Fireballs of red, gold and green exploded; lightning trees of silver, blue and purple arced across the starry sky over the Liberator's statue. Apprentices whose specialties resembled the firework-mages tended to the barbeque: stroking slow-burning fire over roasts, or flash-broiling skewers with lightning.

Magelights twinkled like multihued fireflies in every tree and bush. Drinks were chilled and decorated with frost-feathers by Enchanter Levyn, and music and chatter filled the air. Hawke descended the front steps, and approached the festive crowd.

"Congratulations," he inclined his head at Solona Amell and her brother Daylen.

"Thank you, First Enchanter!" they echoed in unison, holding up their new staves.

Anders was nearby, a glass goblet of something amber and celebratory in hand, surrounded by a gaggle of teenaged apprentices - all far too attractive for Hawke's liking - admiring Anders' new staff. Anders was shamelessly revelling in being the centre of attention, grin bright and eyes vivid, hair and earring gleaming golden in the firelight. "... and to you," Anders pointed at Weaselby, a gangly youth whose face immediately went almost as red as his hair, "I leave my treasured notes. May you always know which knob of your staff is up, and may you keep it up high and proud and longer than ever." He leaned in and added in a stage whisper almost as loud as his former announcement, "Speaking of proud, I'm particularly proud of my modification to the Grease spell. May it help smooth your way into many tight spots and help you keep those..." Anders dropped the stage whisper and raised his goblet, "...BOTTOMS UP!" He drained it and the circle of apprentices around him cheered and followed suit.

"Ahem," Senior Enchanter Petra patted Anders' shoulder. "I'm sure they've had plenty of your influence already, Anders." Hawke blinked. It might've been a trick of the firelight, but he could've sworn Petra was blushing - not as badly as Weaselby, but then, who did?

"Of course they have! And to you, our honored Senior Enchanter," Anders rounded on her with a leer, "We all give our utmost respect and gratitude, for keeping us all on a really tight leash and making us remember our virtues fondlely. Whoever would we do without you?"

The flock of grinning apprentices nodded along and gave Petra their best admiring stares.

"Oh, stop that, you rowdy lot," she hmphed, reaching out with a stern glare and scruffing Anders' hair.

Anders beamed impishly at her, then his blue gaze drifted past her, and just for a second rested on Hawke. Though his grin didn't waver, the new arch of one eyebrow changed it into a challenge.

Far from being disconcerted, the tacit challenge energised Hawke. He'd been rising to far more deadly challenges for longer than Anders had been around - well, this time anyway. With the aplomb of a man with a decade's experience as First Enchanter, he sauntered over to the dais at the base of the statue. As he faced the crowd, the buzz of conversation faded, and an expectant near-silence took its place.

"Good evening, everyone! I hope you're all having a good time." He nodded in acknowledgement of the already-slightly tipsy cheers, then added, "Let's welcome the stars of tonight's festivities. Please join me in congratulating our newest mages: Entropy Mage Solona Amell and Arcane Mage Daylen Amell." Hawke paused as they stepped up onto the dais beside him, then waited for the applause to die down. "And join me in bidding them the fondest of farewells, since they've both already been offered positions in the Denerim court."

The twins stood shoulder to shoulder surrounded by magelights. The ruddy glow of the various fires, the multicolored sparks of magelight, lent some color even to Solona's face, dramatically pale above her elegant black robes. Daylen's sleeveless robes showcased his arms, muscled from long practice at wielding sword as well as staff in combat. Their shared facial tattoos shadowed their eyesockets in dark ink, highlighted their cheekbones like those of a skull. Many years ago, before the Revolution, their tattoos and robes and staves would have been suicidal, would have had the templars at their throats at once; but now their appearance was merely striking. If anything, it was an advertisement of the rare contributions they as mages could make, to Denerim's court, to any society. Looking at them, Hawke felt a sudden, glowing sense of pride in what he'd accomplished in less than twenty years.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anders raise his goblet to the twins.

_No_, Hawke realised, what he felt wasn't pride at what _he'd_ accomplished, but what _they'd_ accomplished. Without Anders' knowledge of the Deep Roads, Hawke knew he would most likely still be a small-time crook in Gamlen's Lowtown hovel. And even after that, without Anders' cause, Hawke would have gone on his own merry way, with no higher goal in life than maybe someday becoming Viscount of Kirkwall - _if_ he managed to keep his magical talent a secret - while in the Gallows, in the Circles all over Thedas, the brutality would have gone on as it had done for a thousand years: mages would have continued to lose their liberty, their minds, their lives.

That sobering realisation tempered Hawke's pride, restored his focus to where it belonged, all along: to the mages in his care. "We wish them both all the best in their lives beyond the Circle."

The cheering peaked as Daylen waved energetically, and Solona smiled. Then they left the dais, and the applause faded. In the silence, Hawke continued. "Congratulations also to Mage Anders, who chose to take his Test early, and without special preparation." Instead of hurrying up to join Hawke on the well-lit dais as the Amells had done, Anders stayed where he was, looking up rather coolly at Hawke. Hawke took it in his stride, continuing to address the crowd. "In light of the short notice, I acted as Guardian for his first Fadewalk, and I can personally verify that here," he held out his hand, and magelights began to fall out of the nearest trees like glimmering snow, until Anders' current standpoint was almost as well lit as the dais, "we have our first Spirit Healer in many years!" At this announcement, a buzz of gossip arose and lingered, which took a calming wave of Hawke's hand to quiet. "I have no doubt that the Fade and its Spirits will bow to your will, whatever path you choose."

Hawke left the conclusion as an open-ended question to Anders, a question that he did not expect answered at that moment, so it was a surprise when Anders immediately rose up to the challenge.

"Wellll," Anders drawled, tilting his head in a pantomime of thought before smiling winningly at the gathering, "I can't say it doesn't sound tempting to follow Solona and Daylen into the wide, _wild_ world..." Anders grinned at the Amells and waggled his eyebrows shamelessly at their answering laughter. "...to taste mages' hard-won freedom for myself, and push back its limitations wherever I might find them." Here he met Hawke's gaze directly; the light glinted in his pale blue eyes, making his expression unreadable. For Hawke time seemed to stretch strangely, as his stare intensified with his longing to discover the thoughts behind that bright blue gaze. Though it was really only a moment before Anders added, "but with this new bond, I suppose I still have a thing or two to learn from our Circle."

It took all Hawke's experience as a General not to let his knees go visibly weak with relief. The slight nod Anders gave him, no more than a courtesy between equals, was as clear as any manifesto. All hadn't been forgiven yet; but for now, Anders was willing to give him a chance.

* * *

_They're leaving tomorrow! That's in just... eight hours' time!_ Anders thought, sitting on Solona's old bed, out of the way of packed bags and chests. _Oh, what am I doing staying here? I already miss them, and they haven't even left yet!_ He sighed and clutched Daylen's skin of brandy to himself for comfort.

He sniffed, and then a sob rose up to stick in his throat, which meant it was time to swallow it back down along with more brandy. Anders took one long fiery gulp, which felt like trying to swallow Daylen's sword (and not the fun one). He coughed and snuck an arm around Solona in her bloody gorgeous silk robes that so unfairly covered up her curves which Anders' hands itched to liberate from such a sad and cruel fate; robes were so unfair and downright criminal and nobody deserved to be imprisoned by their evil hold less than Solona.

Anders sighed. "I'm keeping your wineskin," he told Daylen. "It deserves to be filled from the Spoiled Princess' stores and how're you going to do that all the way from Denerim?"

"Oh, come here!" Daylen grinned widely and stepped forward, pulling Anders into a bearhug. "You ought to be asking for much more than the brandy to remember us by and you know it!" His bright eyes in ink-tinted shadow met Anders' and then he leaned forward to place a kiss against Anders' lips. "We both know you know it. Right, sis?"

"Mmm," Solona purred, taking over the hug from her brother. Her gentle hands with long fingernails gave Anders' bare chest a comforting scratch. "He's been acting odd ever since the Test. You haven't surrendered yourself over to the Spirit of Chastity, have you, dear? I'd rather see you in thrall of a Desire Demon, than caging yourself to a pious, proper deity for a lifetime. You might as well bend over at Andraste's altar and take the Chantry vows up your-"

"Void, no!" Anders laugh-winced. "Definitely not Chastity! My spirit likes his freedom as much as I do."

"Just as well!" Solona smirked.

"You're telling me!" Anders reached gamely for his usual cheerful mask. "If I'd bonded with Chastity, well..." Anders' eyes widened in a parody of innocent shock, "That would've been a right cockup! Well, no. More like the opposite of a cockup. Cockdown? Anyway. A Bloody Disaster! Why, without ME," he declared, waving expansively with one hand and reaching down and adjusting himself teasingly with the other hand, "most of the women around here and a lot the men would chuck themselves off the tower out of sheer sexual frustration! It'd be RAINING MAGES!" He grinned triumphantly and by way of demonstration, toppled backward like a felled tree, flopping onto the rumpled bed, his fall bouncing a couple of clothing-stuffed sacks onto the floor.

They joined in his laughter, pelting him with pillows by way of revenge for his ridiculousness.

Daylen plopped down to sit beside him, back propped against the wall. "Sooo..." he nudged Anders with an elbow. "What's this spirit of yours like, besides freedom?"

"Well, I s'pose he likes me," Anders shrugged to Daylen. "He stuck around for this long already."

"That's to be expected," Daylen interrupted. "Who doesn't like you? You're -"

"Charming!" Anders and Daylen finished together. Both broke into laughter at the old joke.

"But what _is_ it?" Solona pressed, fixing him with a stare that was suddenly needle-sharp. "This spirit of yours? The one that chose you? Or did you choose it?"

Anders frowned, deep in thought. _Trust Solona to ask the really hard... __**difficult**__ questions._ "We chose each other," he replied slowly, feeling his way among the truths he couldn't share, to the ones he could. "It feels like a lifetime ago." He looked up, meeting first Solona's intent stare, then Daylen's amiable regard, and explained things as simply as he could. "He's Justice."

That surprised them both. "Interesting," Solona drawled, but the word was a mere placeholder; the wheels of her mind were turning almost audibly despite the late hour and the alcohol. Daylen's reaction was simpler, more accepting: a snort of gentle amusement, a companionable nudge of one brawny arm, warm against Anders' side. "Never picked you for the crusading type."

Anders replied with a soft huff, but couldn't quite bring himself to smile. "S'pose we've all gotta grow up sometime." Then, to stave off the gloom that hung about those words, he sat up and elbowed Daylen. "Like you two. Bodyguard to the King himself, eh? Bit of a step up in the world." He turned his grin to Solona, "And you'll be doing double duty, I hear? Taking care of the Queen's insomnia when you're not Court Investigator. And Queen Anora's asking for all sorts of expert help, getting that University of hers off the ground. Just don't take over the University library completely, eh?" He winked at Solona and gave her a particularly cheeky grin, just to break her composed mask and make her laugh.

As usual, Daylen laughed first. Then Solona's laughter echoed.

Anders sprawled between them on the bed and tried not to think too hard. His thoughts swam anyway, a whirlwind of them in his mind, like the whirlpool of remaining brandy still sloshing in the wineskin. _So confusing..._ Before the Test, the Amells were his closest friends in the Circle. He was used to thinking of them as the best friends he'd _ever_ known. But now, his new memories, his old life, had suddenly complicated a comparison that had always been so simple before. Before Solona and Daylen, in a different life, Karl had been a friend every bit as dear to Anders' heart. Friendship will all of them had come with additional copious benefits that brightened the day and warmed the night.

Part of Anders - mostly the parts below the waist - would have liked to just fall back into his former habits, pull Solona and Daylen both down onto the bed with him and let simple, mindless pleasure liberate him, just for a while, from worrying about the morning.

But then, there was Hawke. And Hawke complicated things. A lot. As always.

Anders' cock still perked up, lifting its head and hoping for a farewell fuck: maybe the last one he'd get in a long while.

But Anders' mind overrode his insistent cock with rare ease: certain that Anders loved Garrett Hawke, and that he'd never loved anyone else.

Anders sighed and took another drink. Just his luck that Garrett - the sexy bloodyminded bastard too fond of shoving Anders into gilded cages - seemed just as off-limits as he was in the bad old days a week ago, when all he'd been to Anders was 'First Enchanter Hawke'.

"No mage I know has ever dared to fall in love," Anders had told Garrett twice, and what's more, he'd _meant_ it, both times. "This is the rule I will most cherish breaking." That wasn't just his usual charm and flattery; those words were true, the truest words in Anders' life, in both his lives. The love he felt for Hawke, then and now, was like nothing else he'd ever felt. It was strong and deep and _real_, and it was the best feeling he knew, so incredibly perfect it was worth going without a fuck, even a lovely comfortable companionable farewell fuck with dear friends. It was worth waiting a lifetime in loneliness.

Now that he thought of it, it was sort of like waiting for a White Knight to find Anders in his darkest nightmares, and offer all his strength to rescue Anders from them. How ironic was it that the bond with Justice and the Cause was the most permanent thing in Anders' life. The templars had trained Anders not to hope for a family, not to commit to a lover who could only ever have been a temporary reprieve, so what was the use? But then, there was Hawke, the only one who had held Anders' attention for years, who had inspired Anders to utter those words of love and _mean_ them. Hawke who had picked up Anders' Cause, when his guilt and grief had made it impossible for him to go on, and who had made it a reality.

Anders surfaced from his contemplation, to find both Solona and Daylen looking down at him, fondness and resignation in two pairs of tattoo-shadowed eyes. He summoned a bright smile, just for them. "I was just thinking about how bloody selfish I've been. Not sharing the brandy." He held up the wineskin and shook it by way of explanation. "Help me finish this off tonight..."

Daylen beamed. "Now that's our Anders!"

Solona gave her twin a conspiratorial smile. "_Just_ so."

Between the three of them, the wineskin was drained in no time. Anders remembered things in flashes: his eyes were wet and his nose reacquainting itself with the cushiony warmth of Solona's comforting cleavage as well as Daylen's thickly muscled chest. They fell asleep on the bed, sprawled together like a pile of kittens, still in their celebration finery and with their door unlocked. And if Petra found them in the morning and griped at Anders for getting the Amells drunk again on the eve of another important day, well Anders really couldn't've given a nug's arse.

* * *

_There's time._ For the first time in all the long years since that hideous day in the Gallows, Hawke felt hope - not impersonal hope for the mages, for the Cause - but hope for his own future. Hope for him. For _them_. For the first time since the day his world had ended, Hawke had a future of his own. Because _they_ had a future. He and Anders. _His _Anders.

Hawke closed the door to his private quarters, shrugged off his heavy outer robes, and set his trusted staff on the rack by the wall. The tower windows were clear, showing the stars in the night sky twinkling down in the deep inky blue. It was as if Kinloch Hold's Tower was an open hand, thrusting high into the skies and holding Hawke up in its palm.

A miniature fireball lit the bedside candle, another stoked the embers in the fireplace. A light brush of telekinesis opened the windows, letting in a soft breath of cool night breeze, airing out the dusty rooms, rustling the sheets of parchment at the bedside table. The candle flickered, bathing the room in soft orange light, casting the dark shadow from Hawke to the open window. Hawke sauntered over to lean against the windowframe, looking out at the gardens far below. The cooking hearths that had been lit in the gardens for the Passing Party weren't quite extinguished: their coals were barely visible, distant sparks. In the deep gulf of the night, their golden flicker was as fragile and beautiful as hope, lingering in the darkness. Keeping the shadows at bay, until the coming of the dawn.

_Anders is staying._ As Hawke looked down at those distant gleams, a rare smile dawned, slim and shy and very slightly stiff, as if his facial muscles had forgotten the habit. _He could've finished his training anywhere. Any Circle in Thedas would be honored to host a Spirit Healer. But __**he chose to stay.**__ Here. In my Circle. With me._

The smile lingered like the coals as Hawke turned away from the window. As he settled into his solitary bed, he looked up at the two staves hanging over his headboard. He'd kept both of them through the most difficult times in his life, when he'd fled Kirkwall with little more than the robes on his back. Both staves had been wielded by Anders. Together they bookended the man he'd known. The first one, Anders had dubbed Freedom's Call: it was a leather-wrapped length of red steel topped by a silver dragon head. It was apt for spirit damage, and Hawke would never forget the otherworldly grace with which Anders had whirled that staff, leveling it at him in warning, to hold his party at bay, lest anyone threaten the clinic. The second staff was even more familiar: a heirloom from Hawke's father Malcolm, it was layered with memories even older than his first meeting with Anders. He'd handed it to Anders shortly after he gave him the key to the Amell estate; ironically, Anders' magical style had suited the sculpted length of Aurum far better than Hawke's own fierce, Force-driven magic, which yearned to pour through a bladed staff which could slice and stab like a spear in close melee fighting.

He'd always thought of it as a staff of rebellion; for longer than he'd been alive, it had helped his father stay one step ahead of the templars. He'd been more right about that staff than he knew: Anders had wielded that very staff on the terrible day when everything had come to an end.

He'd watched, heart in his throat, as Anders brought that staff deliberately down, its heel ringing on the unforgiving stones of the Gallows courtyard, once, twice, thrice: each strike as fateful as the tolling of a great, golden gong. Marking the end to a millennium of heinous injustice.

Marking the end of the life that had given Hawke's own life meaning.

Hawke drew a breath that shuddered in his chest. Even now, all these years later, even after the miracle that had returned hope to his life, the memory of that day still lay heavy and hot under his breastbone, still tightened his throat like a hangman's noose.

Sighing, he drew back the covers and stretched out on his solitary bed. He rolled onto his side and his gaze came to rest on the familiar sight of the stack of books that for years had served him as a bedside table.

The pile of books was in turn topped by a stack of manuscripts: Anders' manifesto. By now, he'd memorised every word on those worn parchment pages: deciphered every letter scribbled in passionate haste, scrawled by his beloved in the yellow flicker of the library's candles or the red glow of the bedroom's hearth or the lyrium-blue blaze of Justice.

Every book, every page was bathed now in the pearl-gentle glow of preservation spells: Barrier and Immunity runes shone as faint, as steadfast as the stars. He'd kept these mementoes of Anders for decades; he'd intended to cling to them forever, as his only link to the love he'd lost.

Now they weren't his only link, not anymore. He smiled at them, and for once, for once, it wasn't a sad smile, full of longing and loss, grief and regret.

Now, it was a smile of hope.

As he settled into the bed that had been his alone for far too long, he felt warm, truly warm, warm all the way through his muscles, all the way down to his bones, for the very first time since the day when everything had ended.

And better still, it wasn't the sad echo of remembering the warmth he'd lost. It was the warmth of anticipation: not yet the knowledge, but already more than just hope, of Anders returning to his bed; as if he'd never left it.

Just as he'd never left Hawke's heart.

* * *

It was ironic, wanting to ask a Fade spirit relationship advice, but now that the Twins were on their way to Denerim, Justice was the only one Anders could really talk to, the only one who would really understand what 'Freedom' meant. What 'Unfair!' meant. What 'Sacrifice' meant. What Hawke meant to Anders, and what they meant to each other. And Justice - unswayed by random glimpses of skin or memories of cock, even Hawke's gorgeous cock - had a far calmer head (either head) than Anders.

Anders wanted to seek Justice out at once, but he'd forced himself to wait at least a day, wary of taking too much lyrium over too short a time. While he was waiting he'd occupied his time in the library, among the few volumes (all dusty and almost-never-touched) that dealt with bonds with Fade spirits. There, he'd been lucky enough to find a method to contact one's spirit while dreaming. The book said that the hardest part would be for his dreaming self to remember that he wanted to talk to Justice. Once he'd remembered that, then apparently following the bond they shared through the Fade was simple.

_Worth a try,_ Anders thought as he checked the book out, took it with him to bed that night.

And it had worked like a charm. The Fade was as weird and misty and irrational as ever, but in the midst of all that miasma, Justice shone like a beacon, drawing Anders to him as surely as steel draws a magnet.

"Maker's blue balls, are you a sight for sore eyes!" Anders beamed.

Justice huffed dryly and shook his head at Anders. He still hadn't replaced the helm that Anders had removed when they'd bonded; it was reassuring to Anders to see his own expression of ironic amusement on the spirit's face. "It's good that you're not using lyrium as a crutch anymore, but you'll still need a great deal of practice." Justice declared. "You took far too long to find me. In sleep you should be able to come to me at once."

"Hey! This is the first time I've even tried it!" Anders cried. "Finding you in this place is nothing like having you right there inside my head! I should get credit for being a fast learner!"

Justice only tsked. "To be truly effective, you'll have to enter trance instantly, even awake, even in battle, and find me at once! Every second we're apart, when you need my help in combat, could be the difference between life and death."

Anders plopped down to sit on mottled dry earth, propping his chin on his fists and his elbows on his knees, and settling down to brood. "Believe it or not," he grumbled, "I didn't actually come here to discuss combat strategy."

Justice looked down, raising both eyebrows at him. He stood there for a bit, thinking it over, watching Anders all the while, then eased himself down with various metallic clinks and clanks, to sit by Anders' side. "Then why did you come?" he inquired, in quieter tones.

Anders smiled sadly and leaned sideways, resting against Justice's side, just like Pounce would lean against him. He even felt like purring. It just felt so nice, not to be alone anymore. "I just…" he sighed, "…needed a friend to talk to."

A bit more metallic clinking, quiet and almost musical, and an arm draped lightly around Anders' shoulders, drawing him in to lean a bit closer as Justice shifted to accept his weight. Around them, the misty landscape of the Fade blurred briefly. Anders blinked and found himself looking out on the Fade's version of Lake Calenhad, the water gleaming a blue brighter than the fog-yellow sky, in which the Black City was a distant blot, no more threatening than a single puff of cloud. He curled fingers and toes in sand as white as sugar, and smiled. "Thanks."

The smile drained away from Anders' face, as fast as the powdery grains trickled through his fingers. He watched his fingertips tracing aimless patterns in the sand, unable to look at his old friend. "I don't know what to do about Hawke," he confessed tonelessly. "It's all so… so different now." He gripped a handful of sand, squeezed. "He's the bloody First Enchanter!" Anders cried abruptly, throwing the handful away in a frustrated flail. "It wasn't his business to go after you, but that's not how _he_ saw it, oh no. I'm just a jumped-up apprentice to him! A kid that needs protecting from himself! From you!"

Justice's voice was patient. "You are a mage," he declared with quiet certainty. "Has he not acknowledged this?"

"Yeah…" Anders felt his pout shift to a more pensive expression: Justice's question brought back a clear memory of Hawke's speech. It would've been so very easy for the First Enchanter to say something arrogant and certain, something about how proud his Circle was that Anders was staying to finish his training. Something that would have assumed, presumed, tried to take the choice out of Anders' hands. _But he didn't say that._ Anders thought slowly. _He did leave it up to me._

"He did. Acknowledge it." Anders admitted. He'd learned early on that you had to be just to reason with Justice. "But I… I miss him, and I want him so bad I can hardly think straight, but I can't bring myself to talk to him yet. Because…" He swallowed. "Because there's too much at stake. Yeah, he conceded when he made that speech at the Passing Party, but what if he's just too used to being First Enchanter and General Hawke and in charge! Of everything, including me! I love him, I always will, but I just can't have anyone ruling me! Not even him! I can't live like that!" He sighed and turned his head, pressing his forehead against a softly glowing breastplate and squeezing his eyelids shut. "So, when we finally talk next, I'll need him to show me that the speech wasn't a fluke! I need to know for sure that he really does understand just what he did wrong, and that he's not going to do it again! So I… I haven't gone to him. I miss him so much it _hurts_, but I'm not going to see him right now! Because I want to give him as much time as possible, to think about it and get it right. I can't stand the thought of living without him. But I can't bear the thought of living as his toyboy."

Justice drew his axe, and a few bright glowing swings cut down the shadows that had lengthened around Anders as he'd spoken. "And if he does do it again?"

"Then he's not the same man I've always known. We've always been equals. Always! I can't let him blind himself into risking his life unnecessarily, out of some stubborn wish to protect me from things I don't need protecting from, without even talking to me first! And if he thinks I'm going to put up for long with being disregarded and caged, then he's forgotten who I am."

Justice tilted his head. "You're so afraid of being caged by him, yet you stayed."

"Because he didn't assume I would. Because he publicly left it up to me. And just as well he did, too," Anders pouted defensively, "I was this close to following the Twins to Denerim."

"I see."

"I don't know what to do! It's like he's forgotten how to really trust and confide in someone. Maker knows I don't want to leave, but he _is_ the First Enchanter here. Can he ever see me as anything but an overgrown apprentice, if I'm still studying under him in his Tower?"

_Wait!_ _He __**is**__ the First Enchanter. _Anders blinked, blindsided by the thought. _Who's he had to trust and confide in?_ As realisation dawned, chills raced down his spine. He wrapped his arms around his knees and shuddered, leaning harder into the steady support of Justice's side. _Did he have anyone? What if he's been all alone? For all those years? Decades! Ever since I died._ Suddenly it seemed all too achingly likely.

"I just found him, just found myself again, and now losing him would be like losing both!" Anders lifted his fingers to his face in an instinctive gesture to send a burst of healing energy through his temples. "But how am I supposed to tell him that? Wouldn't that sound like, I don't know, like blackmail? 'Treat me like I want, or I'm going?' I can't just walk up there to his office and say that. That wouldn't be fair."

Justice shifted a little; Anders looked, and saw eyes bright with spirit energy gazing steadily into his own. "'Fair' to yourself," Justice asked quietly, "or 'fair' to him?"

"To both of us."

"That is something that only the two of you, together, can decide."

Anders stretched his legs out in front of him, heels kicking long furrows in the lakeshore's sand. "I suppose you're right," he sighed and clambered to his feet.

"I'd hope I have some small insights into matters of justice," the spirit agreed in dryly amused tones, as he too rose to his feet, moving with far more grace than should be possible in heavy plate.

Anders smiled at him; "Thanks," he said, and meant it. "Well then," he stretched the kinks out of his back after so long hunched over, "Now that that's out of the way, I s'pose I'd better get a bit of practice at finding you, while I'm here."

"Fair enough." Justice nodded, then in the next instant he was gone.

Anders closed his eyes, shutting out the Fade's shifting landscape. His head and body turned this way and that as he focused on his link to his old friend. Which direction felt fairer, more just? Right, left, before, behind… up or down? He followed his instincts, blurring through dreamscapes with the speed of thought, until he knew he was where he needed to be. Or more precisely, with the one he needed to be with. He opened his eyes and saw a familiar shining figure. "Caught you."

Anders thought he caught a glint of pride in Justice's answering smile. "Good." Then the aggravating git vanished, leaving only an echo that whispered. "Again. Faster this time!"

Anders laughed and went after him.


	5. Part V: The Liberator

**PART V: The Liberator**

They'd seen the Twins off that morning, and Anders had been unusually quiet, disappearing somewhere alone after breakfast, instead of being surrounded by the usual circle of swooning apprentices.

Hawke wanted nothing more than to go find him, immediately, but how would that look? As though he was keeping tabs on Anders? As though he couldn't trust the man for a minute out of his sight, when Anders had already shown _his_ trust by staying? Hawke bit his tongue, dragged himself back up to his office - where Anders knew he could find him, if he wanted to - and tried to distract himself with paperwork.

There was always a snowdrift of letters waiting on his desk, and today was no exception. A scroll with complex ribbon ties and the famous double-mabari Theirin seal was the first one to attract his notice.

In contrast with the seal and ribbon, the content of the letter was startlingly informal, for a letter from the Crown.

_**First Enchanter Hawke,**_

_**My wife and I want to thank you for doing all you can to speed Solona and Daylen Amell on their way to court as soon as possible. I'm all too happy to have an Amell or two at my side again. All of Ferelden misses its Hero, but I more than most.**_

_**Anora's plans for the University proceed rapidly; the rebuilding of Howe's old Denerim estate is almost complete...**_

Hawke scanned the rest of the letter to its signature, _**Alistair Theirin**_, as firm and direct as the King himself.

Any letter from the King called for a swift answer; Hawke reminded himself that the courier needed to leave today with a reply.

Another scroll waited on his desk, this one without a seal, and with a few liquor stains on the parchment. _**Garrett, son, remember the good old days when Leandra and you boys stayed with me in Lowtown? The whole family together again, it was something, wasn't it? Well, the roof needs fixing badly now and...**_

_Gamlen._ Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose, fingertips rubbing the familiar line of scar tissue in a doomed attempt to keep the headache at bay. _The money must've run out already. That's some sort of new record._ He dropped the letter as if the cheap paper was on fire, and reached for the next.

_**Hawke,**_

_**First of all, Gamlen came by again this morning. I swear, the old sod still thinks he can convince me he's entitled to the house. If I've told him once that Leandra left the place to you, and that I'm paying you rent, I've told him a hundred times. Mind you, I'm not sure he remembers a word I've said. Half the time I doubt he remembers which part of town he's in. No shit, the amount of booze on his breath could wilt the ivy off the Reinharts' walls...**_

_Hm,_ Hawke snorted, _nice to know the Estate is going well._

The next scroll had the dragon of Kirkwall marking its red seal. Its parchment grey and dull, it looked about as dry as military orders. Hawke laid that one aside, to be read later, peering at it suspiciously all the while. _Maker, I hope Gamlen didn't wander all the way up to the Viscount's office this time, in the state he's usually in by noon. That's one way to end up in a cell overnight, and then a leaky roof would be the least of his worries._

Beneath, an unusually thick roll of parchment awaited its turn. _From Amaranthine. Well, well, well..._ Hawke's eyebrow lifted. _It's been awhile since I've seen one of these..._ He picked it up and immediately sighed at the seal, a simple blob of wax. _Carver. Of course, I should've guessed. Pity it's not from his precious Warden-Commander. Compared to my baby brother, Howe's positively polite._

_I can't imagine how they get along. Those two grouchy gits trapped together? I'd've thought Vigil's Keep wouldn't be big enough for both their egos! Still, they haven't killed each other by now, so that has to mean something. I bet they're getting on splendidly when no one's looking._ Hawke grinned wickedly. _Or better yet, they're shagging each other like rabbits in their cosy little hideaway so far from civilisation, and don't want anyone to know. At least that'd explain how Carver got so far __**up**__ in the ranks._ Hawke wondered if he should ask Carver just that, and snorted at that thought. _Carver's outrage would burn down the whole Keep! Or maybe the heat of his blush would._

_Oh well, let's see what news baby brother wants to share..._ With a mental shrug, Hawke broke the seal, unfolded the scroll and glanced at the only line the first page held.

_**Gamlen wrote to me. Twice this month! I've enclosed both letters. You handle it! Carver.**_

Hawke snorted. _Nice to know even he isn't immune to Gamlen's whining._ Sharing Carver's latest location with Gamlen was definitely worth the parchment and the trouble. _It's only fair he gets to join in on the family affair with our dear Uncle Gamlen as much as I have._

Hawke smirked and picked up the quill. _Baby Brother better appreciate that he gets priority over the Crown. Not that I'd ever get a thank you. That would be too polite._

He reached for a clean sheet of parchment.

_**Greetings, brother,**_

_**How's your love life? Speaking of which, do pass on my warmest regards to Howe. Hope the dear Commander is treating you well. And you? Hard at work under him? Sweating away in the Wardens' service?**_

_Well, that ought to have the prim and proper git steaming out of his ears! Isabela would be proud._

_**Everything's fine here, by the way, not that you asked. But no matter how well you hide it, brother of mine, I just know how you must spend every day thinking about your dear family - though no doubt Howe keeps you too busy to do any thinking at night...**_

_Maker, I hope Howe doesn't see this. If they ever were... and he ever did... Yeah, that'd be awkward._ Hawke thought it over, and smirked. _Who am I kidding, it's __**Carver! **__It's an even bet that my surly little brother doesn't even bother to read my letters before he chucks them into the fire._

It had always been easiest for him and Carver to snipe at each other. The fact that, in recent years, the sniping always occurred on parchment rather than in person, hadn't changed a thing. But now, for the first time in far too long, Garrett had real news to tell: and this time the news was truly amazing. _Anders is back!_ Garrett felt like he was bursting with this momentous revelation, aching to share it with the last family he had left (because Gamlen hardly counted).

But he couldn't. Because it was too miraculous, too incredible. Carver would never believe him, would feel sure that the loneliness had finally driven him mad. _I couldn't even blame him: Maker knows there were times when it came too close to doing exactly that._ So Hawke was forced to fall back on familiar teasing to fill up the scroll, just as he'd always done.

Anyway, Carver didn't really know Anders to begin with, so he'd hardly be convinced by any of the proofs Garrett had to offer. Carver had never got along with Anders, any more than his whiny little brother had ever got along with Garrett himself.

_Brothers! Can't live with them, can't let the Blight kill them._ Garrett sighed. Carver seemed happy enough in the Wardens, or as happy as he'd ever been anywhere, and at least there he shouldn't feel as though he was in Garrett's shadow, like he'd always complained. _Oh well, at least Carver seems to have taken well enough to being a Warden, at least as far as I can tell from here._ Garrett thought as he dripped candlewax onto the scroll and sealed it with the First Enchanter's signet ring, then set it aside. _Lucky for him. Poor sod was stuck with the Wardens, just like he was stuck with me for a brother._

* * *

Anders' heart-to-heart with Justice had helped him sort out his thoughts on Hawke. Once upon a time, in Amaranthine, the spirit had been a good listener, a good confidant: at least before they'd started permanently sharing his head, and getting on each others' nerves.

But that didn't make it any easier for Anders to give Hawke time to finish doing his own thinking and approach him. He missed the hotheaded bugger so intensely it was stirring up a restless fever, heating his skin and making it hard... hard to think.

He could have cooled off by swimming around the Tower isle. But the day outside was chilly and overcast, so he took refuge from the depressing weather, diving into the books instead.

The library might feel changeless, with its musty scent of parchment and ink and leather and dust, but here as everywhere else, Anders' new memories gave him a new perspective. Now he knew that the windows letting in the grey outdoors light were newly enlarged, making the room much lighter and airier than the stingy arrow-slots that were all the old prison-fortress had allowed.

Now, as he looked around the shelves, he noticed that even more sweeping changes had overtaken the library's holdings. He strode from shelf to shelf, looking for the books that had annoyed him the most: the ones with the most sanctimonious sycophancy toward the Chantry and the templars, the ones with the most poisonous prejudice against mages. In his last life, he'd taken as much revenge on these vicious volumes as he'd dared: filling their margins with sarcastic notes and scurrilous sketches.

But shelf after shelf told the same story: the hated books had gone, replaced in each case by newly written works. Leafing through them, he could see they dealt with the same topics, but without the biases that had fired his sense of helpless outrage.

It might've been nice to see his doodles and snarky marginal notes again. It would've been a bit like reading illustrated letters from his older to his younger self. But the realisation that those books would poison no more impressionable young minds gave him an even deeper happiness.

Though he heartily approved of the fact that the really bigoted bastard books were gone, on second thought, that did also mean that his comments puncturing the prejudice and his drawings satirising the sanctimoniousness, were gone too. Now the new generation didn't have any benefit of reading his editorialising, or seeing his impressive grasp of anatomically-correct caricatures. _Hm, that's really unfair. So, what's next on the old to-do list?_ He looked around, until his gaze came to rest on an especially thick and dusty tome. _Aha! There's always the bewilderingly bloody boring books!_

Anders hauled down the huge tome, and - wishing all the while that he was a Force mage like Garrett - staggered with it to the nearest table, thumping it down in a cloud of dust.

He paused and took a quick glance around, but Dagna wasn't drawn by the thud of the tome hitting the desk, so Anders grabbed one of the library's quills, opened the tome to the very first page and had a lovely time sketching Ser Pounce-a-Lot staring wide-eyed at two very naked and very entangled stick figures, with helpful captions and arrows: 'Me,' proclaimed the top arrow. 'First Enchanter,' read the bottom caption. 'My staff!' arrow pointed to a stick with a proper-sized knob. 'My other staff!' helpfully pointed at the obvious place. He captioned another lewd stick figure illustrating what happened next, "Insert Cock 'A' into Slot 'B'!" and surveyed the resulting artistic tableau with a proud grin. 'A', of course, stood for Amazingly Awesome Athletically Anarchistic Anders, and 'B' stood for Bloodysexy Bearded Bubble-Butted Bastard Garrett.

Liberated by the thought of neither Solona Amell nor Dagna the Librarian being in close range to stop him, Anders licked his inkquill to coax a smooth stroke from it. He tilted his head over the pages.

_Hm. Maybe that should've been a G instead. Garrett is, after all, the Great and Gorgeous General._ That grand idea warranted another lewd drawing.

Anders picked a history page that mentioned Garrett and set to it. This time, he let stick-figure Garrett stick it to stick-figure Anders.

_That's only fair,_ he told himself with a sage nod. _Justice would approve._

A while later, having distinctly improved that waste of words, Anders prowled the shelves for another likely prospect. This time, his eye was caught by a book left out on the desk: judging by the smooth texture and vibrant color of the leather, it was a new edition, therefore unlikely to be boring enough to need his special touch. He was about to pass it by when he noticed its title: _A Complete History of the Mage Revolution_.

As if of their own accord, his hands gravitated to the book, scooping it up. His fingers riffled through the pages, then stilled, holding the book open at one particular place. He turned away then from the long library table, taking the book with him, into a corner where a shaft of grey, watery light streamed through a window, pooling around a worn armchair. He curled up in the chair, sinking into the well-used upholstery, settling the book in his lap and opening it.

Right at the account of his death.

**Then the Prince of Starkhaven cried, "No! You cannot let this abomination walk free! He dies, or I am returning to Starkhaven. And I will bring such an army with me on my return that there'll be nothing left of Kirkwall for these maleficarum to rule!"**

**The Liberator could not bear that an entire city would suffer unjustly for his actions. So he replied, "If I pay with my life for the justice all mages have awaited, then I pay."**

**With that, the Prince drew his dagger and stabbed the Liberator to the heart, and Anders raised neither hand nor staff to resist him.**

**Thus, the Liberator sacrificed his life, so that the mages of Thedas would finally know freedom, so that the people of Kirkwall would know peace, and so that the General of the Revolution and his companions would be permitted to leave the Gallows alive, to carry the fire of Revolution to the farthest corners of the world.**

Anders stared at the page before him, heart pounding oddly, his throat dry. His memory of those last, terrible moments was graven into his being. He remembered every word he'd said with perfect clarity, every word Hawke had said, every threat Sebastian had shouted.

This account was so very close to the truth, yet slanted just enough to serve the greater good: to let Hawke carry on the Revolution unhindered, since as far as the world knew, his hands were clean of the Liberator's blood. The public blame for his murder had been placed squarely on Sebastian Vael's Chantry-loving shoulders, and no doubt it had proved to be an uncomfortable burden.

Of course, Anders had no proof, but that didn't stop him from _knowing_ exactly who'd been responsible for this artfully crafted version of events.

_Oh Varric, you sneaky sod! You said you were sick of mages and templars, but you still made sure Hawke could go on fighting, almost as much as I did!_ Anders shook his head, and a gust of bittersweet, ironic laughter broke free. _If ever I see you again, I'm going to hug you so hard even that barrel chest will creak!_

* * *

_I've done the right thing,_ Hawke told himself for the umpteenth time that day. _I've shown him that I respect his choices._ But it felt like a poor consolation for endless hours wasted wading through routine paperwork, when he could imagine all too clearly, all the wonderful ways he desperately wanted, needed to spend his time. With Anders!

_But this is different!_ The shared meals in the Tower's Great Hall tied their entire community together: they were the one time and place where everyone in Kinloch Hold met together, instead of attending their different classes or pursuing their own private study or leisure.

Whatever the state of Anders' mind and soul, his body was still eighteen years old, and even though his hunger was no longer spurred on by the taint, he still had the appetite of any growing lad. It was only expected to see him at every meal.

But today, Anders had missed dinner altogether.

That was uncharacteristic enough to give Hawke a good, solid, non-personal, First Enchanterly reason to go looking for Anders, and he couldn't have been more eager to do so. Staying around long enough for food to be served, long enough to down a few token bites, was purest torture.

It took a real effort of will not to bolt from the Hall, but somehow he managed to leave it at an approximation of his usual pace. It wouldn't do to let anyone else think that anything was wrong. They might come after him, and the last thing Hawke wanted right now was company.

Apart from Anders.

Finally, Hawke allowed himself the relief of doing not what he had to do, but what he _wanted_ to do all along. He stalked through the tower corridors, looking high and low for a familiar bright head of hair.

All was quiet. In the staircases, in the niches amid the window arches, between the bookshelves, until...

_There!_ In an out-of-the-way corner of the library, curled up like a cat in the depths of a cushy wingback armchair, was Anders. His head was pillowed, forehead against the armrest, ear against his feathery pauldron, and one of Dagna's precious tomes still rested at his side.

Hawke stood there in silence, just watching Anders sleep. How familiar the routine seemed, how ordinary. Hawke's throat tightened as he thought back to countless broken nights, all the times he'd wake in the darkness, to find the bed beside him empty for so long even the sheets had gone cold. All the times he'd pad through the empty house, and find Anders at his library's desk, collapsed in exhaustion, sprawled over a haystack of sheets scribbled with the endless drafts of his Manifesto. Then, even as he'd slept in the drugged way of the desperately sleep-deprived, Anders' rest hadn't been easy. His brow had furrowed, and the lips Hawke had kissed so many times were taut with tension, downturned in a frown.

But now, Anders slept deep and undisturbed. A stray strand of hair had escaped from its tail, fanning over his forehead, and beneath that scatter of gold his expression shone with a look of peace that Garrett had seen all too heartbreakingly seldom on his lover's face.

He came closer, basking in the calm that radiated from the sleeping man; serenity rested like light on his untroubled brow, sighed softly from lips parted in utter relaxation. _It's understandable, I suppose,_ Hawke mused with a wry smile. _He can't have got much sleep the past few nights._

Hawke looked around the empty library. Even Dagna was still in the hall having dinner with the rest of the Tower. _His new quarters are just around the corner. What if I... _Before he even thought it, Hawke's staff tilted toward the armchair, and a Telekinesis spell as natural as Hawke's physical hold wrapped around Anders, subtle and soft as a featherdown blanket as it lifted gently him from the armchair. The book slipped out of Anders' grasp onto the now-empty armchair as Hawke's Force magic lifted him higher. _Careful..._ Hawke reminded himself, even though he remembered so vividly using that very same spell on Anders so many times, so many late nights at the Estate, bringing Anders from the estate library up the stairs to their bedroom.

_Steady... That's it._

Anders' sleep was utterly undisturbed; his soft, steady breathing never so much as hitched. With his fluffy bedhead, his ruffled feather pauldrons and his beaky nose, Anders looked like a bird as he hovered in midair, safely cupped in the invisible palm of Hawke's magic. Hawke titled his staff, concentrating on his precious burden, and Anders floated before him as he walked with slow and careful steps out of the library, heading for the mage's quarters.

The hour had left the corridors empty and silent. Anders barely stirred. More of his hair straggled free of its tie, trailing after him like sun-gilded wisps of cloud; his pauldron feathers fluttered softly and settled. _Good. Just a bit longer._ Thankfully Anders' new quarters weren't far. There was no mistaking them, not when Ser Pounce-a-Lot was sitting by the entrance. The cat meowed plaintively and stared at the closed door, which opened to Hawke's spell. The tabby gave an approving purr and slipped in as soon as the door was open wide enough to let in more than a whisker.

Hawke entered the room more sedately, moving with care, mindful of the man asleep in the embrace of his spell. A tiny flick of fire magic kindled candles scattered around the room.

Hawke tilted his staff, and in response Anders drifted across the room, light as a puff of smoke. As he moved, Hawke turned back the covers, then slowly eased his magic away, settling Anders gently onto the bed. A small pillow embroidered with a bright red cockerel had pride of place amid the other pillows. It was eyed with a huff of amusement. _Looks like Anderfels mothers never change._ Hawke smiled to himself and slid the pillow carefully under Anders' tousled head. He drew the covers up over Anders with magic, not with his hands. _There._ His job was done. He hadn't made any more assumptions. Hadn't forced the issue. He fought the urge to tuck in the sleeping man with his own hands, or even to come within arms' reach. His hands curled into fists at the effort to restrain himself from touching Anders: he'd already done enough today.

He allowed himself one last look at that tempting sight: Anders, his head thrown back, as if in abandon, lips parted on a sigh, as if begging for a kiss.

_He's just asleep._ Hawke reminded himself. _I've done the right thing,_ he reassured himself once more. _Now I should go. I really shouldn't still be in his rooms. After dark. Alone. __**Uninvited.**_

Somehow Hawke actually managed to make himself turn away from Anders. Hawke's gaze was on the door as he heard a sound. A rustle of sheets. A sigh.

"Mmm," Anders hummed. Hawke froze, looking back at him. Anders' eyes were shut, his face and body still relaxed; he still looked deeply asleep. But then he muttered, "Garrett. Cometobed."

It sounded barely awake and completely instinctive and straight from the heart.

Hawke took a step back toward Anders' bed. Another... Drawn closer and closer, like steel to lodestone. Until he sat down on the empty side of the bed, then slowly stretched out, careful to keep himself on top of the covers. _He asked me to stay. It's not improper if I... only stay a little while. Just till he settles down again._ The fact that the covers were between them didn't stop Anders from rolling toward him instinctively with a sleepy smile, as soon as he lay down. Though that reaction was immediate, Anders' eyes were still closed, and with a happy sigh he subsided at once, sinking back into a deeper sleep.

A thought from Hawke snuffed the candles; but it took him, lying in formal robes on top of the covers, much longer to relax than it had taken Anders. For a while Hawke lay there, watching the traces of Anders' smile lingering like the last light of coals, breathing in the familiar smells of candle smoke and ink, amid the unfamiliar aromas of Anders' room: cedar and cinnamon and cat.

Then, underneath it all, he caught the scent of Anders' sleeping body, and breathed it into himself, slow and deep. Wrapped in that warmth, he drifted at last to sleep.

* * *

The Fade was calm and unshadowed, with the steady reassurance of his Knight guarding Anders' well-being in the spirit world. But what was even more important than that protection was the comfort of a warm, relaxed body next to him in bed, a body he knew instantly, without sight: by feel and smell and the steely sense of force magic, and by sheer soul-deep instinct. _Garrett!_

Ever so slowly, Anders cracked open his eyelids, peered at the world through a golden haze of eyelashes and bedhead, as if staring boldly would wake him from the beautiful dream of lying in bed with Garrett.

_Garrett, with robes on,_ he clarified with a puzzled frown as his fingers fumbled against heavy cloth. _Huh. Must be real. If this was __**my**__ dream, we'd both be well and truly naked!_

The first rays of sunlight beamed through the window, striped like Ser Pounce-a-Lot's tail. Garrett's shoulder under his cheek was warmer than even these sunbeams, an even better pillow than the one Mum made.

Maybe to other people this morning might've seemed like any other morning at the Tower; but never before in this life had Anders felt as if everything he'd ever want till the day he died was right _here_, within his arms' reach. Keeping his head pillowed on Garrett's shoulder, he leaned in against the ticklish edge of Garrett's beard, until he could sense his calm, even breathing.

Anders pulled back just a bit, and then he couldn't contain an unselfconscious grin and a huff of laughter at the sheer joy of the sight. Garrett was with him. He'd _stayed._ In his bed. All night.

At the sound of that soft chuckle, Garrett stirred. Thick black eyelashes flickered, and he blinked at Anders, and a slow, sleepy smile dawned.

Suddenly, lying there in the clear golden light of morning, Anders felt naked, even though this was one of the few times since childhood he _hadn't_ slept naked.

He didn't quite know what to say. What was there to say? He had to say _something_! _In for a copper, in for a sovereign. S'pose I should start with the obvious._

"Mornin'," he murmured as his fingers lazily met Hawke's warm palm. Anders' lips parted but he was unsure of how to continue. How to even address the man in his bed? _Garrett? First Enchanter?_

He remembered his Garrett well enough to make a fair guess at what First Enchanter Hawke was trying to do. He was trying to keep Anders at arms' length. Because he didn't want to be seen as misusing his position. Anders could even understand the motive behind that plan of action.

The fact that Garrett was acting from honest motives, didn't stop him from being wrong! Anders was no powerless apprentice: not mentally, not spiritually, not even in practical terms. Now, he just had to convince one iron-willed First Enchanter of that fact.

Which, of course, was the problem.

Could he do it? Could he convince Garrett that they were still equals? When his body _was_ so much younger now?

Anders sighed. _I have to try. __**Have**__ to!_ One alternative - to leave Ferelden, perhaps for years, to complete his Spirit Healer training in another Circle - was unpalatable. The others - either to submit to a relationship where he would forever be the subordinate, or else to leave Hawke on a more permanent basis - were utterly unthinkable.

Anders gathered his resolve, shored up a heart warmed by Hawke's acceptance. _He stayed. That's a start._ So instead Anders merely smiled, hopeful of the new day. He slid his arm further around Garrett's body, fingertips trailing down his robed arm till they found his hand, then he curled his fingers gently around Garrett's broad palm, fingertips brushing across bony knuckles. Garrett's hands were still as rough as any warrior's, for all the years he'd spent as First Enchanter. And more than anything, Anders wanted those hands on him. Like it used to be: a sleep-rough whisper of "Mornin', love," and a hard embrace, pulling Anders close enough to bury his face in Garrett's chest and just breathe, filling his lungs with Garrett's scent, more intoxicating than lyrium: letting it energise him like lyrium, giving him strength enough to draw away from the haven of those strong arms - eventually - and face the day alone.

Garrett's scent was all around Anders, warm and welcome and unforgettable. He drew a deep breath, let it pull him out of reminiscence and into reality. His smile widened as Garrett's fingers curled around his own, squeezing back. Garrett's hand moved, lifting their joined hands, and then his lips pressed, sure and soft, against Anders' knuckles.

"Mornin', love," Garrett husked, just like he always used to do; that sleep-blurred rumble deep in his chest, the achingly familiar murmur that had rescued Anders from Warden nightmares or Fade-arguments with Justice. Anders' breath hitched in response; he was so touched by the memories, so overwhelmed by the knowledge that _this _was no memory. He beamed at the flash of Garrett's smile in that dark beard, at the tickle of rough hairs on the sensitive skin between Anders' fingers. The moment felt as if they both were years ago and leagues away, back in the Amell estate, in the big four-poster bed with the world locked out, lying together whole and safe and unbroken. As though time, war and death had never torn them apart.

Anders released the breath he'd been holding in a huff, a voiceless, joyous laugh. Garrett was right _here_ in his room, his bed, his arms. Free from the dangers and worries that had always burdened them both. Lighthearted as one of Garrett's rare, memorable smiles when they were alone; only Anders was allowed to see the man behind the mask of the Champion. Only Anders ever saw the glint of delight kindle deep in Garrett's stare, and spread to his lips at last, brightening his whole face.

_That mouth deserves better things to kiss…_ Anders drew his hand away from Garrett's lips. _It's been so long…_ It was an injustice that had to be remedied. _Right now!_

Anders exploded into movement, wrigglekicking out from under the bedsheets, struggling free of them so he could _lunge_, plastering himself against Garrett, rolling on top of him, sinking his fingertips into that scruffy hair and holding his head still so he could give those soft, teasing lips a proper good morning kiss, all open mouth and soft, panting breaths and pure, instinctive _need_.

It was nothing like any of the kisses he'd ever given before, at least not with these lips, in this life. There was nothing of the studied, practiced seduction he'd gone to such pains to cultivate, in all those safe, simple Tower flirtations, where he'd never really risked losing his heart. If those flirtations were a spark, easily contained, easily quenched, then this was a beacon lighting up the night for miles around, a wildfire burning bright on a windswept hilltop, beckoning him with the siren's call of freedom, the song Anders had followed all his life. All his lives.

As he had always done and would always do, Anders flung himself into answering that call, with everything in him.

Anders' face burned with the rush of heat, with the warmth of breath from Garrett's surprised gasp, and a moment later, the incredible joy of feeling Garrett _kiss him back_. Garrett's mouth opened under Anders', welcoming his kiss. Garrett's lips were silky soft in the teasing, tickling roughness of his beard. Anders smiled into the kiss, accepting the invitation of that maddening flick of tongue. He rose to Garrett's challenge in more ways than one, deepening the kiss, tracing the sharp line of teeth with his tongue.

Garrett's embrace tightened, arms cabled with muscle winding hard and close around Anders' body, and Garrett's large hands traced a path between Anders' shoulder blades. A shared gasp, juddering and ragged in two chests pressed so close broke the pace, and suddenly the kiss turned warm and wet and desperate.

_Garrett! Needed this! So good!_ Anders was left gasping for breath, for more, dizzy with the rush of heat to his face, the rush of blood to his groin. His robes were too tight, too constraining. _Clothes. Off! Now!_

The trouble was, to get rid of his clothes Anders would first have to relax the frantic clutch of his arms around Garrett's body. He'd have to stop the insistent, instinctive grind of his hips. _Argh. Why did he go to sleep dressed? Why did he let ME do that too? So bloody stupid!_ One arm at a time, unwilling to let go of his hold, he finally managed to wriggle and flail his way out of his outer robe.

He sat up over Garrett's lap and stretched upward, trying to rip his undershirt over his head. The rough cotton got stuck in just the wrong place, and what was _supposed_ to be a slow cat-like stretch to show off muscles toned by staff combat, and long distance swimming and running, and other, much more interesting endurance workouts, turned abruptly into a graceless jolt into stillness and an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp of surprise.

"What? What is it?"

"Piercing," Anders mumbled hastily, head bowed to hide his awkward blush as he fumbled with the shirt. "Caught…"

He didn't finish his thought, because Garrett's mouth was warm and soothing and just right there. "…aaahh!"

Embarrassment forgotten, Anders gasped, pressing his sore nipple shamelessly against Garrett's mouth. Impatience flared in him, and his magic flared with it. _Fuck it!_ The shirt flashed into flame, then the next instant the flames were gone in a tingling wash of ice crystals; the ashes rained away from Anders' naked torso in brief, black snow as he stretched and flexed his body, writhing under Garrett's wicked mouth, arching into his talented, tender hands.

He was so tempted to give Garrett's formal robes the same impatient treatment… so, so tempted to see that body laid at last in front of him, but in that moment Garrett _threw_ him upward, Force magic cradling his body like the hands of a loving, invisible giant, holding him suspended. Time seemed to stand still, as Anders hung in midair, watching Garrett rip open his own robes, the heavy brocade shredding under the sudden bunch and writhe of thick shoulder and arm muscles.

Then Garrett's magic eased and Anders drifted down, like the ashes of his shirt, the ashes of his old, shallow, lonely life. Down onto Garrett, onto his body, skin to skin. And Garrett welcomed him home with open arms and open eyes.

The instant their skin touched it was like a spark to tinder, burning away all awareness of where one body, one self, ended and another began.

And his Garrett, the new lines and shadows of his face, the silver at his temples, all the years that now stood between them, none of it mattered after all. Garrett was still the same man Anders had loved. There was so much open desire in his gaze as he stared up at Anders, needing this as much as Anders, pleading with his eyes and his body for Anders' touch, endless tenderness in every caress of his hands… So reassuring to find that, after all, this wasn't the First Enchanter, not the powerful General of the Rebellion. It was just Garrett. His Garrett.

Just like the first time, when Anders entered the door that Garrett had left open for him, and they spoke the words they were afraid to say to each other for years, and they kissed and Garrett stretched out and pulled Anders down onto his body, into his arms. This was just as shattering, as Anders' world rocked on its axis and was reborn in the golden light of dawn, in the fiery heat of arousal. All was touch and sensation and surging thrusts, and the slide of sweat-slicked skin on skin, and panting sobs of need, choked and full-throated, broken and whole.

And Garrett, his Garrett, held Anders in his arms, so strong and tight; and Anders held onto him with everything he was, surrendering into bliss. Morning. Love. Garrett's husky whisper still rang in his ears. With the bright sunshine streaming down on them through the tower windows, he looked down at Garrett, flushed and tousled and openmouthed and so beautiful Anders' vision blurred and he sobbed with joy.

If Anders had been as he was before everything changed, he would have been mortified at how fast he came, from nothing more than the friction of cock against cock, like a green youth. This was just one more reason why it was such a liberation to be just Garrett's Anders: together they were far beyond caring about such trivial matters as proper bedroom etiquette.

Anyway, it wasn't as if his now-older lover had managed to hold out any longer. Not that that mattered a damn.

Nothing in all the world mattered, nothing but this: lying right here in Garrett's arms, listening to the deep, strong beat of his heart, his head buoyed on the slow sea-swell of Garrett's breathing. Luxuriating in the familiar caress of warm, blunt fingertips, sifting softly through the fine hair at his nape. Wrinkling his nose at the tickle of rough chest hair, feeling it brushing his lips as he smiled, wide and unselfconscious and unstoppable. Even though Garrett couldn't possibly see that smile, Anders felt an answering sigh of contentment shift that broad chest under his cheek, and it was so good. Better than good.

For the first time in this life, Anders felt _whole_.


	6. Part VI: The Spirit Healer

**PART VI: The Spirit Healer**

Garrett's morning was filled with sunlight and Anders: the love he felt was a physical ache in his throat, under his ribs, a prickle beneath his lowered eyelids, as real and solid as the weight of Anders' head on his shoulder, and as golden as the sun in hopelessly tousled blond hair.

"Do you _have_ to go?"

"No. Not yet," Garrett murmured, stroking Anders' bare shoulder. Anders sighed in utter contentment.

There was no turning back. _As though I could ever __**want**__ to!_ Garrett smiled at the memory of Anders' sleepy voice instinctively murmuring his name. That simple, heartfelt invitation had decided both their fates. Whatever trouble arose from the First Enchanter loving a recently-graduated mage, they'd face it together.

The morning was as bright as if the all the years of bitterness and grief had finally lifted, like a cold night mist dissolved by the dawn. Garrett looked at Anders, lying in a sated sprawl over Garrett, covering him with comfortable weight, the point of his nose tucked into the crook of Garrett's shoulder, his breath warm against Garrett's jaw. So many awakenings without his Anders were a mist of cold mornings, whether nursing war wounds or desperate rebellion plans, when Garrett was left hungry, body and soul, wishing above all for this. For Anders.

But all the mornings Garrett awoke alone were in the past. Now Garrett basked in the utter calm of closeness to the only man who had ever owned his heart. His fingers traced the curve at the nape of his neck, lost in the sweaty, silky strands of hair. Every line of this newfound, beloved body, every gasp and sound from that beautiful mouth, had told Garrett of pleasure and joy, relaxation and peace.

Somehow, barely, he'd managed to survive so many long, bitter years with only memories and grief for company, but now it was over, now Garrett was not alone. He had Anders and Anders had him; they'd told each other that this morning, wordlessly, passionately, making the confession more real with every gasp, every moan, every shudder, every skitter of shaky fingertips over his skin, every frantic clutch of fever-hot hands.

Now the memories Garrett lost himself in were minutes old, not years, and far from being shadowed with loss, they glowed with the promise of a brighter future. He smiled at the way the slightest touches in well-remembered places still made Anders gasp: the way he'd shiver and roll his shoulders when Garrett stroked down his spine, the way he'd tilt his head back and bite his lip when Garrett thumbed his nipple, the way the slightest brush of Garrett's lips to his ear made his cock jump.

After the heat of the moment passed, and after their frantic clench turned into an unending embrace, after Anders cried out in his arms and grew silent and sated, only then the thought arose, bright as the morning sun _Maker, __**it really is him! He's alive!**__ And he's here with me. Because he wants to be. He __**wants**__ me! Bodies don't lie._ Those realizations were Spirit Healing in the truest, deepest sense. Anders' healing presence touched Garrett's soul, just as surely as Anders' hands held Garrett's body. Both Garrett's body and soul were rough with the scars of solitary years of struggle, years of guilt and loss and grief for the only one he'd ever loved.

But once more, Anders was here, and Anders loved him. And so again and again Garrett savoured the thought and replayed in his mind every glimpse and every sound of his beloved's pleasure, knowing that he too had been reborn. Out of an age of loneliness came a new beginning, a happy one.

Everything in the world that Garrett needed so desperately, that he'd never thought he'd know again, was with him once more. A warm freckled shoulder and a bright strand of hair and a smile, such a brilliant soft smile that desperately needed to be kissed.

So Garret kissed it. _Here's to many more mornings together. A lifetime's worth._ When he eased back again, Anders' smile was even wider.

Anders licked his lips with the barest flicker of a pink tonguetip, and hummed appreciation.

Garrett smiled.

"You _could_ not go at all. You _could_ stay here all day…" Anders suggested, Ever So Subtly. "See, if you leave now, someone will notice, and by breakfast the whole Tower will talk; you know how they are, bloody load of gossips." Anders flexed his fingers in a casting gesture, and waggled his eyebrows. "And then I'll be _forced_ to duel the lot of them to protect your honor, and after I fight off the entire Hall, there'll be triage on the dining tables, and health potion in the porridge, and breakfast will be _ruined_. Which is just plain rude! It's simply too early for anyone to have to cope with all that mess," Anders explained, the picture of earnestness. "You see the problem," he said confidently, following it up with a hopeful, blue-eyed blink. "Don't you?"

"Course." Garrett huffed amusement into Anders' hair. "Can't have that. Tonight, my rooms."

"Oh?" Anders' head rose from Garrett's chest and then his smile shone bright. "I can, perhaps, make an effort to _fit you in_to my busy Spirit Healing schedule," he replied airily, before a broad grin broke his brief attempt at faux-cool. "Right after dinner!"

"I'll leave the door unlocked," Garrett promised.

At those words, Anders' smile softened, turned as reminiscent as Garrett knew his own must be: clearly Anders too was thinking back to their first time, years ago and in another country. "That'll be _perfect,_" Anders husked.

It already _was_ perfect.

* * *

Although a First Enchanter's work was never done, it was only when the sun had risen enough for its light to turn white and distant, that Garrett finally managed to drag himself away from Anders' relaxed, comfortable sprawl. With everyone in the Hall for breakfast, the corridors were quiet, not that Garrett gave a damn about being seen leaving Anders' rooms: after all, any glimpse of his torn robes and bedhead would've left no doubt of how he'd spent his night. Anders had warned about gossips, if only as a joke. _So what? Let them talk!_

Anders was more important than any gossip or sidelong stares. They'd spent far too many years in hiding as apostate mages, and Garrett didn't want Anders to have to hide what they meant to each other. They shouldn't have to, not in this new world that they'd fought for, that Anders had sacrificed his life for: a world where they could at last be truly open. Truly free.

_Right after dinner…_ Garrett reminded himself halfway up the stairs as he drew his cloak closed, over skin bared by his torn robes. He paused on the staircase, and smiled, soft and joyful: for a brief second not First Enchanter Hawke, just Garrett the Apostate, a young Fereldan in Kirkwall, swept hopelessly up one fated summer by the lifelong whirlwind of his first and only love.

When he started moving again, his step was spry, bounding up two stairs at once, eager to get back to his rooms, to get the day's work over with. His stride paused when a shadow fell on him and someone coming down the stairs almost stumbled into him. "Watch it!" the man snapped but the outburst was followed up with a milder "…oh. My apologies, Ser."

_Well, well, and I was beginning to worry he was Tranquil, the way nothing seemed to faze him. Good to see he's just another man underneath it all._ With an effort, Hawke kept the smile off his face as he eyed Levyn, noting the haphazardly-undone collar and the hint of color on the man's unshaven face. "Morning, Senior Enchanter," he said blandly.

"Morning, First Enchanter," came the usual bland reply.

"Late night in the library again?"

Levyn blinked bleary eyes at him before turning away to fumble his collar up, but it wasn't enough to hide the telltale bruise on the side of his neck. "Yes, um. My studies kept me up. Late." Levyn muttered, "Very late."

"Good to see you're working so hard." Hawke abandoned his earlier attempt at blandness and beamed as brightly as possible at the poor sod, who squint-winced at him and staggered off downstairs, a bit like a vampire fleeing blinding sunlight.

_Looks like I'm not the only one who's just had a night to remember._ The grin lingered as Hawke sauntered up the stairs. _I wonder if I could rightly join the betting pool; most of the Tower has to be in on it by now. After all, I've just happened across a bit of a scoop. This is the third time this a month someone's seen Levyn stumbling back to his quarters after a night spent elsewhere. Surely that's a sign of something more than a one-night-stand._

* * *

Dinnertime, and anticipation made Anders' stomach feel like it was already full of lightning bugs, so fluttery he didn't want to eat a bit. But Garrett was right there in the hall, at the Enchanters' table, and Anders was bloodywell determined he'd need all his strength for the night to come, _So to speak!_ So to make himself eat something he made a game of the meal, skipping the main course but choosing a bowl of custard for afters. He'd originally planned to tease Garrett with sly glances as he took his sweet time licking the custard off his spoon, but the first time he looked Garrett's way, the carefully banked smoulder behind that dark gaze brought an answering heat to his own cheeks, and he didn't dare a repeat performance.

He was about to abandon his game and slip out of the hall, when his attention was drawn to a knot of Apprentices a bit further down his table.

"Hey, if you don't believe me, look at this!" Weaselby whispered, theatrically waving an odd sort of phial. "Fresh from Owain's super-secret locked store! _Told_ you I was good enough to get past all those wards!"

Weaselby was begging to have the fear of Enchanter Levyn put in him, but unfortunately Enchanter Levyn was nowhere to be found, again. His seat at the Enchanter's table had been empty at dinnertime for weeks, right next to Librarian Dagna's equally-empty high seat with built-in steps. Senior Enchanter Petra looked ominously occupied with her scribbled stack of student writings. In any event, the Enchanters' table - all the way up there at the far end of the hall - was too distant to be within earshot. Anders glanced back at Weaselby with a growing sense of dread piercing through the usual annoyance at having to babysit the young ones.

"What's in it?" one of the other Apprentices asked.

"Dunno," Weaselby shrugged, squinting at the label. "Sela-peta-something-smudgy."

_Sela petrae! _Anders went cold all over. He drew breath to shout at Weaselby as a youngster rushed past, ruffling Anders' pauldron, jogging Weaselby's elbow. Anders started to lunge for the phial, but everything slowed as it slipped from Weaselby's hand, tumbling end over end through the air. Falling straight for the hard flagstone floor.

The blast hurled Anders through the air, slammed him to the ground; he should've been knocked senseless or worse, but pure reflex had instantly opened a channel to the Fade. He could feel Justice's agitation and concern, mirroring his own, feeding him power. The trickle of blood from his nose and ears stopped as he staggered to his feet. _At least there was no drakestone in it, _the thought came from a distant corner of his mind, floating far above the chaos, _the Tower's still standing._

Anders blinked through a haze of dust and dizziness. One glimpse of sprawled figures, and he flung his connection to Justice wide open. Power rushed through in a torrent, crashing over him like a waterfall. He flung his arms wide, gathering the blazing blue might of the Fade, directing it to his will.

* * *

From his position at the head of the Enchanter's table, Hawke reacted instantly to the blast. Stone debris and shattered furniture hung in mid-air, where his instinctive outburst of magic caught and held them, stopping them from raining death on everyone below; but Hawke hadn't had time to shield those near the core of the explosion. He rushed to the epicentre of the blast with Haste-assisted speed, as Anders staggered to his feet. Lyrium-blue light rippled over Anders' body, erasing the blood on his face. The sight might have reminded Hawke of Justice possessing his lover, but this light wasn't shattering Anders' skin: instead it flowed around him, under his control: a normal, natural spell.

As Hawke drew near, Anders tilted back his head in a yielding gesture and unfurled his arms, graceful as outstretched wings. A wave of pure power radiated from Anders onto the fallen crowd of apprentices. Hawke felt the healing magic wash through him and spread to fill the farthest corners of the hall. It smelled of lightning, of lyrium, of distant Anderfels snows. Anders' eyes were closed in concentration; his upturned face was ecstatic, aglow.

Spirit Healing. _Justice._

With a fierce pang of pride and protectiveness, Garrett slid his arms around Anders' waist, steadied him, feeling the fine tremors of magical exertion rippling through that slender body. Rock-solid, Garrett supported him, even as he maintained his own force-magical hold on the worst of the wreckage.

All around them, all around the hall, mangled bodies were bathed in that sky-bright glow: terrible wounds closing, shattered limbs regaining their form, skin charred black blushing anew with health.

Footsteps sounded right outside the doors blasted open by the explosion. Levyn sprinted into the hall, robes unbuttoned. His staff glowed like an icicle and a small snowstorm gathered at the ceiling, raining fluffy snowflakes over their heads, efficiently putting out the small fires that dotted the hall. Hawke blinked. Through the haze, he saw Petra's shadowy form, still in rock armor, helping someone up. One after another, staves rose; other spells started taking over Hawke's force-hold of various pieces of suspended wreckage. Even Dagna, as it turned out, was right behind Levyn; both her arms wrapped around bottles of healing potion bigger than her head.

"Ow!" Somewhere under the ruins of the upturned table, Weaselby stirred and shook a custard bowl off his head. "My staff!"

The blue glow of Anders' Fade magic fluttered like a guttering fire, withdrawing slowly from Weaselby, and from one body after another all over the hall, leaving everyone it had touched whole and healthy. When the last flare drew back into Anders' hands, he sagged into Garrett's arms as exhaustion took him. "Thank you," he whispered, turning in the circle of Garrett's embrace. The snowflakes from Levyn's ice magic glinted in his hair, melting. His eyes were heavylidded with the recent exertion, but his blue gaze was clear and serene and human. Garrett squeezed his shoulder and finally let go.

Now that the dazzling spectacle of Anders healing a whole roomful of wounded people was over, Hawke didn't think anyone was still paying attention to them, what with all the bustle of cleanup. But later, after the worst of the debris was cleared away, he saw Dagna gesture toward both of them, from where she was standing next to Petra. Petra nodded with a wry grin, and counted out a sizeable stack of coins into Dagna's outstretched palm.

And then, Hawke's idea that they were being ignored was even more thoroughly disproved, when a ripple, a murmur, passed through the crowd, and everyone who had been healed by Anders moved toward him. There were too many of them to embrace him, but they stretched out their hands to touch him, fingertips trailing, soft and reverent, against his skin: as gently as his Spirit Healing had touched them.

Silently, softly, Hawke brushed Anders' back, between the shoulder blades, and a shiver spilled through Anders' body in an instant response to his touch.

* * *

Garrett's touch was exactly on the place where his blade had set Anders free of a life of torment. Anders shuddered at the collision of his agonising past, and his present joy, with its promise of a future freedom - such precious freedom to love and to be loved in return - and abruptly it was all too much. Tears spilled down his cheeks, but they couldn't dim his smile, couldn't silence his whisper, low and husky and vital as breathing, "Thank you. Thank you. Love you."

He left his staff in Garrett's safe keeping, and stepped into the familiar crowd to clasp the hands reaching for him. Dagna's firm fist thumped gently against his elbow. A little boy's small, curious palm offered up a warming charm. Petra's quick fingers, like Mutti's, patted his shoulder, mended his ripped leather gauntlet, and cleaned the pauldron soot off his cheek, all at once.

So many of them surrounding him. A sea of grateful faces, overjoyed voices. All thanking him. Rejoicing in his magic, his skill. And inside Anders, his connection to the Fade, to his Knight, thrummed, beating as strong and steady as his heart.

'To be truly effective, you'll have to enter trance instantly, even awake, even in battle, and find me at once!' Justice once told him, and Anders smiled, remembering how hard it had seemed then, how effortless it was now.

_I did it! I really did it! I'm a Healer!_

* * *

It was near midnight after the cleanup, with too many unsettled apprentices still out of bed. It had taken until now for Anders to extricate himself from the last of his admirers. He didn't know exactly what to expect, but he had to see Garrett. _Had_ to. He calmed his nerves with a Haste-assisted climb to the very top of the tower, where Garrett's quarters lay. He swallowed, nervous fingers lifting to twitch open the collar of his robes (his best set, with the gold brocade and the iridescent Simir feathers), and knocked on that familiar doorway.

No answer. He tried the handle, and the door opened. He called "Garrett?" as he sidled in, and when there was still no answer he closed the door, and strolled ever-so-casually through the familiar office, heading for the door in the far wall, behind the imposing desk: a door he'd never seen opened, which had to lead to Garrett's quarters.

Anders' gaze drifted across the papers strewn over the desk, and was caught, snagged like a thorn, on a handwriting that he'd never seen before with these eyes, but which he knew all the same.

_**Hawke,**_

_**First of all, Gamlen came by again this morning. I swear, the old sod still thinks he can convince me he's entitled to the house.**_

Anders perched on the edge of the table, all the better to read. _If Garrett was worried about his privacy, he would've put this away,_ he reminded himself. _We've even got a date!_ Thus reassured, he resumed reading.

_**If I've told him once that Leandra left the place to you, and that I'm paying you rent, I've told him a hundred times. Mind you, I'm not sure he remembers a word I've said. Half the time I doubt he remembers which part of town he's in. No shit, the amount of booze on his breath could wilt the ivy off the Reinharts' walls.**_

_Looks like Gamlen hasn't changed a bit_, Anders snorted, feeling like he was peeping over Garrett's shoulder as he read the latest news of the Estate in Kirkwall. _Gamlen always was such a miserable git. Nothing like Garrett at all. It's as if they weren't really related. Though I suppose they must've been: come to think of it, Gamlen and Carver were always two of a kind. Ha! One in every generation._

_**I know you keep sending him money whenever he whines loud enough, and I know your heart's in the right place, but I wouldn't be a friend if I didn't tell you he's just drinking it. Though I don't know what anyone could do to stop him, short of locking him up. I'm sure Donnic would do that, just to keep him out of the Guards' hair, but Aveline holds him back, for old times' sake. (Me, I think they both love it when she gets all forceful with him.)**_

_**But enough of that. Gamlen's your business, not mine. I'm hardly the one who should be handing out advice on keeping family members in one piece.**_

_**On to more pleasant news. Isabela and Fenris have a cozy operation set up running contraband, and I've gone into partnership with them. If you're interested in a piece of the action, we could do with a bit more startup capital. We're sure to triple our profits by Wintersend, or even more if the weather at sea stays mild.**_

_**Daisy says hello. She's still curious about what you're doing with your mages in that not-even-slightly phallic tower of yours. Funny, she still insists it's mushroom-shaped. The Dalish must have some scary mushrooms.**_

_**Who knows, we might hitch a ride with Isabela and Fenris sometime next year and pay Ferelden a visit. Check out new markets, say hello to passing aravels, get some of that extra-hard Fereldan beeswax to keep Bianca's wood shiny (Daisy's eyes are a tough act to follow). Anyway, you should have time to prepare for a siege before we arrive.**_

_**'Til then, look after yourself, and all your sparklefingered students.**_

_**-Varric**_

With a sparkle in his eyes that matched the sparkle he would occasionally let out to dance across his fingers, Anders set the letter back on the desk. A reminiscent grin dawned as his fingertips traced the handwriting, so distinctly Varric's. _Isabela and Fenris, eh? __**And**__ Merrill and Varric. The tower will need Garrett and I both to keep it in one piece if that lot ever come calling!_

He shook his head and snorted amusement. _Oh, Varric, you old storyteller, the party we'll have once you get here! Even the Hanged Man never saw the like!_

But not even the thought of that reunion party could hold Anders' attention for one more moment. His slight grin widened into an eager smile as he strode toward the door in the corner of the office, and a shiver of anticipation traced his spine. Tonight was for Garrett alone.

The door was usually locked, glowing with all kinds of protective runes. It had no such magical glow now, and it was even left ajar in a tacit invitation.

Anders smiled, slow and tender. All day he'd been on his best behavior, all charming and sweet and proper like a swooning apprentice on his first outing to the lakeside tavern with a sweetheart. But this was far from their first outing, and Garrett was no apprentice. _And neither_ Anders thought firmly, _am I._

Anders peered through the half-opened doorway into the First Enchanter's quarters. Garrett obviously hadn't yet managed to get away from duties elsewhere, but a fireplace glowed, warming the room, and all around, candles were lit, filling the place with welcoming light. It was as if Garrett wanted Anders to look around and make himself at home.

As Anders left the First Enchanter's office, he shrugged off his feathered coat and left it hanging on the chair behind Garrett's desk. The fluffy black pauldrons looked like twin birds perching on either side of the tall headrest, claiming it for a nest.

And then Anders sidled through the door into Garrett's quarters; cat-quiet, cat-sneaky, he slipped into the calm, candlelit space. Remembering Garrett's suite in Kirkwall, Anders had expected to run the gauntlet of a whole series of rooms before he reached the bedroom: a library, a private sitting room, Maker knew what. But there was no lavish suite after all, no sweeping staircase, no dining table. Just one room, with a bookcase or two dividing the space, hardly a fraction of the library in the Amell estate. Rounding the bookcases, he found the bed; even that was much simpler than the grand four-poster Anders remembered. A simple, single bed stood in an alcove formed by the bookshelves. The alcove was filled with the flickering golden glow of candles, contrasted by the icy white beams of moon and starlight spilling through the arched windows. There was nothing else. Only the candles, and the small, parchment-scented alcove, and the sky. The entire Ferelden sky stretched before Anders, stars aglow in the evening air.

Anders leaned on the windowsill and pressed his forehead to the glass. He took in the view, and took in a slow breath too, as he tried to rein in his anticipation and resign himself to wait. As he turned away from the window, his gaze followed the slanting rays of moonlight that fell in a long stripe on the alcove wall. Bathed in that light, shining with the clarity of hallucination, was a pair of staves, hanging in pride of place over the head of the bed.

Anders blinked and took one shaky step closer. He knew these staves. He knew them _so_ well. One was crowned with an aurum statuette of a woman, between arcs that might have been stylised wings, or a crescent moon, or a halo, interrupted. Once, Anders had asked Garrett if the woman was Andraste. "Void, no!" Garrett had cried, with one of his raffish, irresistible grins. "Of all people, Dad would be the last to want to buff Andraste's boobs every time he needed to polish his staff!" Garrett looked over his shoulder before whispering theatrically, "Bethany and I knew better than to pry… Oh, if only Carver had half Beth's sense!" Garrett shook his head mock-mournfully, but his cheeky grin stayed put. "You should've seen the look on Dad's face when Carver asked him who it was! It was _almost_ as good as the look on Carver's face when Dad told him it was Mum! Poor, poor Carver."

Anders remembered the warm shared laughter, and an echo of that memory now made his lips part in a soft smile. The staff crossing Malcolm's Honor was wrapped in silk cord, still bright red after all these years, and its silver dragon head shone with careful polishing, as did the small, spiky mace at its base. Anders' hands curled, the skin of his palms remembering the feel of the woven grip over the steel shaft, the steady balance of its weight. His ear could practically hear the hiss of the dragon's jagged jaws as its head cut through the air, when he wielded it, when Justice wielded it, when Spirit energy flowed freely through it: the sound of Freedom's Call, whispering to him.

One staff was a memory of personal sacrifice in the name of family, and another was chosen for a greater purpose, a larger sacrifice: to bring down the Templars' rule over Mages.

_He kept them both. Together._

Anders swallowed in a tight throat, and the gleaming staves blurred briefly in his sight. Blinking, reaching for control, he glanced away.

By the bedside rested a tall stack of books, and a cluster of scrolls atop them, all under the faint glow of runes of protection. Like a moth to magical flame, Anders walked toward it, curious about what Garrett had deemed important enough to protect twice, behind a warded door in this private sanctum, and then once more under their own enchantment.

He unrolled the first scroll and blinked at his own handwriting. _My Manifesto!_ With a Healer's gentle touch he rerolled the fragile parchment and replaced it on the pile of scrolls, then his gaze ran down the stack of books, scanning the titles on their peeling leather spines. These books were almost as familiar as the scrolls. They were all from the tower library: all the volumes that had been withdrawn from circulation, all the ones he'd ever improved with scathing script or scandalous sketches.

Anders' heart jumped; wet warmth prickled in his eyes and when he exhaled a held breath, it was a sigh, slow and deep.

_He kept my writings. All of them. Every single one. He sleeps next to them. Practically **with** them!_

His hand drifted absently up to his mouth, and the fingertips that brushed his lips shook. Anders stared at all the mementoes of their shared life gathered and guarded as precious, irreplaceable treasures, kept by that plain, single bed, and the knowledge of his beloved's solitary life ached in him. _Oh, Garrett!_

A swift rustle of robes, stirred by a familiar, rapid stride, and warm, solid arms slipped around Anders' body from behind. When the rough tickle of beard rubbed against his ear and cheek, Anders' overwhelmed heart found voice in an almost-sob. He turned in the comforting circle of Garrett's embrace, his own hands rising to cup Garrett's cheekbones, fingertips ruffling the silver strands in his hair, cradling Garrett's head with a tenderness that contrasted with the desperate need that he poured into his kiss.

_All those years, he spent them __**alone.**_ Anders held onto that knowledge, as inescapable as the physical fact of the discoveries he'd just made, behind the most private of Garrett's wards. Even though Justice was no longer sharing his body, Anders' own sense of justice rebelled against the cruelty of Garrett's fate.

But Anders was nothing if not a Healer, body and spirit; he reminded himself that they had all the years of their future together to heal the wounds of the past.

_I know just the medicine. I **am** the medicine!_

And so Anders leaned in, determined, deepening their kiss. _He needs a strong dose. To be __**taken**__ as often as possible!_

* * *

Shadows darted along the corridor walls, fleeing from the light at the tip of Hawke's upraised staff as he used Haste to hurry to the top of the tower, bounding up one flight of stairs after another.

He opened the door, rounded the bookcases and there Anders was: standing by the bed with his back turned, one hand pressed to his mouth, staring down at the Manifesto and the pile of books he'd sketched and written in as a student. Tevinter-style robes left his shoulders and upper back bare, and the quivering tension in his stance brought his sinews into high relief, sharply defined even in the gentle glow of candlelight. Garrett forgot to breathe as he took in the sight. The line of Anders' spine was as stark as a staff, and his shoulderblades were sharp enough to cast twin shadows on freckled skin; as Garrett watched, they shivered, like wings unfolding for flight.

Moving on pure instinct, Garrett reached for Anders, wrapped his arms around that wiry body from behind and drew him into a welcoming embrace. He bowed his head and nuzzled softly at the ear half-hidden by a sweep of golden strands.

Anders gave a wordless cry as he turned in Garrett's arms, all silken robes and bare skin. His hands flew to clasp Garrett's head, and he lunged into a frantic kiss: his breathing ragged, his fingertips quivering ever so slightly in Garrett's hair.

When they pulled apart, what Garrett saw was a vision and a treasure. Bright hair in a halo lit by candlelight tickled Garrett's cheek. Anders' eyes shone with liquid brilliance but his smile was so broad, so heartfelt: beaming at Garrett, for Garrett alone. In that spellfire-blue gaze, Garrett saw joy and welcome, and his arms tightened around Anders' body, lifting him off the ground. A missing piece returned at last to his life and his heart. _Anders._

Thoroughly distracted by the man in his arms, Garrett stumbled against a bookcase. Anders wrapped his legs around Garrett and propped his shoulders against the shelves, hips arching as he wriggled shamelessly, panting with effort, determined to slither all the way out of his robe right this instant. Garrett chuckled, accepting the weight of Anders' writhing body, staggering with him toward the bed. His knees folded and they fell sideways, landing on the mattress with a rustle. As they fell Garrett still held on tight, unable to end their embrace.

Even lying down, Anders continued to wriggle and squirm, a flurry of golden strands and a slither of heavy silks. Though Garrett hadn't bothered to take in the details, too absorbed by Anders himself, he vaguely knew that the robe was flattering. Belatedly he realised that Anders had dressed up for their date, which was ironic given that now he was just as determined to get rid of the same robe. Garrett shrugged inwardly and grinned outwardly, being ever-so-helpful by sliding two handfuls of robe down Anders' back. His grin gave way to a blink and then a slower, appreciative smile, when he saw that, whatever trouble Anders had gone to with his outward appearance, he certainly hadn't gone to similar lengths with his smallclothes.

In fact, he hadn't worn anything under those robes at all.

Garrett's lopsided smirk was mirrored by Anders' grin; he hmphed, blowing a stray strand of blond hair out of his face. "What?" he asked archly. "I had time to learn from my mistakes. And _you're_ the one who taught me that pants are a waste of time! Ah, if only any of my other 'lessons' had been anywhere near as much fun…"

Garrett snorted "…I'd've had to spank your other 'teachers' personally," he mock-grumbled, rolling to gather that warm, lithe body closer, press it under him against the bedsheets - his own formal robes bunching rough and heavy between them, enough scratchy brocade and thick lyrium-soaked embroidery in First Enchanter's robes for any two ordinary bodies, if only for one mage. Garrett's sleeves draped Anders' body, followed his hands as they trailed across naked skin, as he took his time exploring.

There were so many things which were new in the body sprawled beneath him, and Garrett took his time, savouring all the tiny, beguiling differences. Garrett nuzzled through crisp, coarse hair - golden instead of bronze - that dusted taut sinews. He pressed swift, impulsive kisses to skin no longer creamy pale, now dappled with freckles: each one a reminder of a new life, spent in the open air and daylight, basking in sunlit freedom without shame.

The piercings were the most striking differences between the Anders he remembered and the one he held now. He'd allowed himself only the briefest glimpse of them before, in the Fade, but now he looked his fill. Two small golden rings glinted in nipples tightened to peaks, throwing back sparks of candlelight with every tiny movement of Anders' chest, each heartbeat and every slow, shivering breath.

Garrett treasured the view, dimly aware of the insistent fingers trying to slide underneath his collar, parting it. But instead of helping Anders strip him, he slid down Anders' body, kissing and nuzzling, until he knelt over Anders' groin.

In the deeply flushed head of Anders' upthrust cock, a thick gold ring glinted. Garrett had never seen a cock pierced, and the sight was so strange, so distracting, it deserved his attention…

Garrett's mouth watered. It deserved his _whole_ attention. _Right now._

"C'mon, my turn…" Anders' murmur seemed to reach Garrett's ears from a long way away; he didn't react to the hands fumbling at the collar fastenings of his robe. He was in no hurry.

Garrett smiled, sudden and beaming, as he remembered, again, that he could take his time.

They had all the time in the world.

_So beautiful…_ "Ssh," Garrett leaned forward, let his breath punctuate the silence. Anders' cock twitched in response as he exhaled against it. As Garrett's thumbs traced the sharp angle of hip, the tight curve of abdominal muscle, he leaned closer down. "Let me…"

Anders' cock surged as if Garrett's stare was physical pressure; precome welled from the slit, glided wetly along the curve of the golden ring. The sight was so enticing, Garrett found himself leaning forward, drawn toward it without thought, lips parting in a pant of need. His tongue reached for it, the very tip trailing slowly along the curve of the ring, feeling the completely novel sensation of bodywarmed metal, clicking against his teeth, sliding along his tongue. Languidly, he laved the ring, capturing it between his front teeth and ever so gently tugging, feeling it shift and turn in the heated flesh of Anders' cock. He bathed the whole head in slow, wet swipes, savouring the taste at once familiar and strange, smiling as he pressed yet another sucking kiss to the pierced tip, feeling the ring move and the head throb and hearing Anders gasp.

The glittering rings embedded in Anders' flesh were new, and yet… there was so much about Anders that was utterly the same. The wild-eyed stare Anders fixed on him as Garrett sucked, until he used the slightest touch of his teeth around the crown, and Anders gave up the struggle to watch. The way Anders' shoulders rolled and his head fell back, and the husky, breathless note of need that broke free as his cock pulsed and wept in Garrett's mouth and he shuddered on the brink. All of it echoed the nights Garrett had spent so long missing, replaying in his mind: all the memories he'd clung to with the desperation of absolute loneliness.

Everything he'd ever wanted.

The only one he'd ever loved.

* * *

Anders should have felt intimidated. After all, this was First Enchanter Hawke, revered by mages all over Thedas. Hawke the Hero. Hawke the Legend. Hawke the General of the Revolution.

Instead, Anders felt lightheaded, giddy with sheer relief to find that he wasn't any of that, at least not here and now. Now, he was purely Garrett: none of those weighty roles, just a man who'd been too lonely for too long. Wholly and solely the man Anders loved.

Anders huffed out a breathless half laugh of pure elation, which swiftly melted into a gasp as he was shaken by far more than mere physical sensation. He looked down his own bared body at the tousled dark head bent over him, pressing kiss after lingering kiss to his skin. As he watched Garrett worshipping his body with the dedication of a scholar, with the reverence of a sculptor, Anders' throat tightened. Gooseflesh spilled down his spine as a great rush of love washed suddenly through him, prickling his eyes with its poignancy. Garrett was so beautiful in his intent focus and there was so much silent adoration in every touch. As he reached gently for Anders' cock, the tender curiosity in his touch told Anders as clearly as words that he'd never seen anything like a simple piercing. There was an utterly unexpected innocence to the soft, savouring brush of lips and tonguetip, the tentative tug of teeth that came only after a slow, careful exploration.

The tide of sensation swelled swiftly then: the hot silk of lips and tongue on the very tip, then gradually taking more of him. The click and tug of teeth on the ring, the feel of the smooth metal sliding in his exquisitely sensitive flesh, wrung a heartfelt moan from him. Then he was lost in lust, in love: crying aloud as waves of bliss poured through him and out, out, out in hot spurts that Garrett swallowed with eager, rhythmic pressure of lips and tongue.

_Oh, Garrett. Maker._ Anders reached for him, shaking hands fumbling with his hair, his shoulder, pulling at the fabric that kept him from the skin-to-skin touch he craved.

It didn't matter that he'd been driven beyond words; Garrett understood him, lifting his head and giving Anders a sudden, shy grin through lips so red and damp and luscious Anders simply had to lunge up and kiss them. He groaned low and quiet into the kiss, his tongue surging, unable to get enough of his own taste in Garrett's mouth. His hands plucked blindly at brocades and fastenings, shoving layers down and away, until Garrett chuckled into his mouth. The sound was warmly indulgent, welcoming.

It didn't matter that the usual deftness of his speech and his hands had been burned away in the blaze of bliss, that his muscles shook and his hands fumbled and the only sounds he made were sighs and a purr of delight. Anders certainly wasn't trying to impress a short-term shag with his suave, worldly prowess between the sheets.

Nothing mattered but being with the man in his arms. His Garrett. The greatest gift in this life or the last. A gift Anders was determined to unwrap.

His hands slid lower, over the stiff collar. His mouth twitched in amusement. _Still dressed. Figures. Stubborn sod._ His smile grew as he looked up meeting the dark stare, in a challenge. _Time to take care of that robe of his already!_

Abruptly, Anders' legs tightened around Garrett's waist, and he gripped Garrett's shoulders and hauled. Garrett allowed himself to be flipped over, grinning up at Anders as clever, Healer's fingers made short work of the fastenings of Garrett's robes. "My turn..." Anders added, as he peeled open the layers far fewer than normal for First Enchanter Hawke, but still more than had been usual for Anders' lover, the Champion of Kirkwall.

Anders' fingers rose to the challenge of exploring, pulling at the fastenings of the ornate fabric, tracing over the lyrium-heavy embroidery from the collar to the belt and persuading it to part and reveal the prize he was after all along. He wanted to see Garrett. _Needed_ it. It was a vital task, a duty, to see this body so he could touch and taste, and remap it by hand and magic.

Anders was struck by the network of scars on Garrett's body: a soldier's scars, mementoes of a lifetime at war. He remembered many of them; as his gaze fell on each he saw again in flashes the desperation of healing them, and the glow of relief and pride when his magic banished Garrett's pain. The worst scar was a broad slash from shoulder to chest, from the Arishok's huge axe. The other marks were less dramatic - the parallel lines of hurlock claws, uneven patches of skin from dragonfire - all from pitched battles when Anders' magic was so low even he couldn't do a perfect job of healing.

The scars he knew showed their age in their pallor, and showed Anders' skill in their relative thinness: if he didn't know Garrett's body so intimately, he might not have noticed some of them. The scars he didn't remember were so much more obvious: overlaying the older marks with redder, thicker weals that spoke of more recent injury, more basic treatment. Those newer scars were the ones that hurt the worst to look at, even though they rekindled no horrible memories of Garrett wounded. They made Anders ache because Garrett had been wounded nevertheless, while he, Anders, hadn't been there to heal him. Garrett's survival had been left at the mercy of mere poultices and potions and luck.

_Those days are over,_ Anders promised himself, promised Garrett, with each kiss he laid along the ridged and roughened lines of scar tissue; the brush of his lips was as light as the fall of a stray feather from his pauldrons.

The tender moment stretched as Anders' kisses moved down Garrett's broad chest; it turned sultry as his lips found and teased a nipple, raising a rumble of wordless encouragement. The mood shifted quickly as he followed a line of scarring down to Garrett's ribs. Garrett let out a sudden hoot of laughter and wriggled sideways. "Tickles," he spluttered by way of explanation, grabbing Anders and pulling him down to lie flat along Garrett's body. They shook together with a shared gust of laughter, as cleansing as sudden spring rains.

"Ohh, all the things we could do," Anders' eyes lit up in anticipation. "Gonna show you something wonderful," he murmured against warm skin, pouncing like an eager cat at his willing target. He was held up by Garrett's arms. "Just let me..." his hands slid down over Garrett's hips and he let his touch and action demonstrate the rest.

Magic rose in Anders until his nerves tingled with anticipation as his hands flowed through well-remembered gestures: a stroke down Garrett's side. Grease spell spilled slick oil over hard muscle, and Anders rubbed in the warmth. Just a little bit of natural magic between the two bodies moving together as one in a dance. Anders flexed his fingers and felt his magic rise to the surface of his skin, sparking freely through his fingertips as they trailed down Garrett's spine. The scarred, beloved body beneath Anders' hands shuddered and arched up. _Yes, like that. Just like that. So beautiful._

After all, what else was magic for, if not for making Garrett gasp with delight! Anders loved their shared magic just as much as he loved Garrett.

Anders' hands roamed, relearning a body both familiar and strange, kneading at hard muscles, stroking teasingly downwards, temporarily avoiding Garrett's straining shaft. He smiled, revelling in Garrett's whimper. "Soon," Anders whispered, sliding the flat of his palms down Garrett's legs as they splayed open in wordless invitation, and then ever so slowly he slid grease-slick fingertips up the softer skin of Garrett's inner thighs. Anders spiced the featherlight touches with tiny, tingling sparks of magic. Pinpoint blue stars spilled from his fingertips, skittering unpredictably over quivering sinews, raising tides of gooseflesh to meet them. Steadily, the tantalising touches drew closer to Garrett's groin, until Anders was tracing sly circles on Garrett's balls, which had already begun to draw up tight into his body.

Anders bent his head impulsively, and coaxed them back down into their sac by careful, openmouthed, sucking kisses. The rich, masculine scent, the musky taste and pebbled texture of Garrett's skin just there, and above all the sound of Garrett's cry, wordless, lost: they shattered Anders' resolve to tease, and he slid grease-gleaming fingers into Garrett's cleft, slicking tender, puckered skin, fingertips sliding deeper with all a Healer's deftness. With his other hand, he coated his own cock, and even though he kept his touch as light as he could, he still gasped, feeling the shaft twitch as if it had a mind of its own. A fresh surge of precome slid along the golden ring as he lined himself up. He felt the metal move in his flesh as he rubbed and nudged teasingly against Garrett's pucker.

Then Anders looked up along Garrett's body, into Garrett's gaze, and all at once he was falling. Into Garrett's eyes: so wide, so dark with desire, his whole expression so open, cheekbones flushed with the intensity of his need. Helpless, Anders fell forward, _into_ Garrett. Pressure and heat closed around Anders' cock and pleasure engulfed him, wringing a breathless, quavering cry from him. Garrett's groan harmonised, and strong legs slid around Anders hips, pulling him in, _in, __**in.**_

_Yesss. Garrett! Gonna show you something wonderful._

Anders propped himself up, straight-armed, his hands on Garrett's muscled chest, head hanging beneath a thatch of sweaty blond hair, swept up in the throb of his cock, buried as deep as he could go. He panted, sensation wracking him with shudders, desperately trying not to come at once. In a last ditch attempt to retain his sanity - or, failing that, to bring Garrett over the edge into madness with him - Anders reached for the power that pulsed in him, vital as his heartbeat, and set it free: sent it arcing from the metal ring in his cock right into Garrett's prostate, up his spine, radiating out through his nerves, sparking from the peaked nipples brushing the hollows of Anders' palms.

It was so worth it! Worth every second of physical self-restraint, of having to maintain his magical focus. _Andraste! Love, yes. Like that..._ The sight of Garrett's face transformed by delight, glimpsed through tangled gold as Anders struggled to keep his eyes open between thrusts. The feel of that strong, hard body spasming beneath him, around him, captured in his spell, cradled in his arms. Anders treasured every gasp, every moan that escaped from parted lips. Unrestrained. Incoherent with bliss.

The hot spasms, the oil-slick thrusts, the sheer overwhelming ecstasy of the moment caught up with Anders, and his head fell back and he wailed aloud, exhilarated as though he was flying. Then, realisation caught up with Anders' overwhelmed senses. He felt Garrett's magic rising with his cries of joy, felt power unstoppable as a wave surging beneath them, around them, and the bed fell away and the world spun as they soared, weightless as leaves.

Flying.

Together.

_Magic!_

* * *

Afterward, when - eventually! - they'd worn each other out, that wildest of flights had eased into a gentle glide downward, slow and spiralling as autumn leaves in the Kinloch Hold's gardens, and they'd settled, tangled in each other, bodies lax, radiating heat and drowsy contentment, as they lay wrapped close in each other's arms.

Anders' eyes eased closed, and he rested his cheek on Garrett's chest and basked in pure contentment. _Guess the Maker can't be too pissed off at me after all,_ he thought with a slow and drowsy grin. His thoughts turned from that shadowy past to his present life: his earlier years in this new, mage-governed Tower. Anders remembered proudly that he'd always been a misbehaving hurricane of lightning spells and charming grins and 'I didn't do it!' Happy with his Mutti's packages of embroidered knickknacks and sweets and knitted scarves in winter; avid collector of gold piercings and connoisseur of feathered pauldrons. How would he and Garrett even have got to this point with Anders being... well, his usual younger self? Not that Anders wouldn't've been up for the challenge! Oh, he would have in an instant! "First enchanter, ow, help! My nipple rings are caught in my shirt. And my other ring's caught in my pants! It's an emergency! Here, feel it!"

No, he realised with a rueful grin, the brat that he was wouldn't have had a chance to see the real Garrett. He would've been out on his ear before he even got inside Garrett's door, much less past all his magical wards and his mental defences.

They never would have ended up together like this, unselfconscious and free.

Candleflicker glistened and bloomed in bright circles from the edges of his eyelashes, as Anders cracked his eyes open. Arms, strong as Force magic, held him through the afterglow. Soft breath warmed his face in not-quite-a-kiss. He turned toward it, focus and thought returning to him like an awakening to reality after a hazy trip to the Fade.

But Garrett, fierce and formidable as he was in a fight, still made a terrible fade demon. Anders' hands reached out, sifting through that stubborn black mane, through the sharp grey-tinged beard, over the curve of Garrett's jaw.

His Garrett. The greatest, most unexpected gift in this life or the last.

'I didn't do it!' his younger self was so fond of claiming whenever one of his brash stunts had gone wrong. But Anders raised his head now and smiled down at Garrett, in a moment of tenderness and pride. _I did __**this**__. The most important thing I could've ever done with my life. I have Garrett back._

"It's almost dawn..." Garrett sighed, "I should probably get up." But for once, even the dedicated First Enchanter didn't move to get out of bed.

Anders didn't comment on it. But he couldn't help the gleam of impish conspiracy in his smile as he suggested, "Sleep in!"

"Can't," Garrett grumbled, though he still didn't actually move. "Imagine explaining _this_ to Petra!"

"I could explain for you!" Anders chirped, ever-so-helpfully. "I'll claim full responsibility!"

A chuckle shook that broad chest as Garrett's arms slid around Anders. "Right, then we'll be in twice as much trouble..."

"Mmm," Anders purred, "Trrouble."

"Don't you dare."

Laughing, Anders pressed a kiss to those smiling lips. "Better sooner rather than later. This way, when she eventually - by accident - catches us trying out your desk in all the _fun_ ways, she won't be so surprised! Mind you, she'd still jump higher than Ser Pounce did that time he fell into my bath, and I'd never hear the end of it from her for corrupting innocent First Enchanters..."

Garrett debated whether to bring up the fact that he'd seen Petra and Dagna just yesterday, likely settling a bet about Anders and himself. "We'll discuss it together," he finally grumbled, too content for serious conversations. "At the right time. Now sleep."


	7. PART VII: A New Era

**PART VII: A New Era**

_Too big... Too small... Just right!_ Ser Pounce-A-Lot sank his teeth into his latest lake conquest and ran up the sandy wet shore, over the ticklish garden grass and the scratchy stone courtyard, back into his taller-than-trees tower and up up up, UP its thoroughly scentmarked stairs. Round and round the staircase he went, tail waving proudly in the air at every step, avoiding the swinging doors, sidestepping heavy staves, darting around feet much bigger than a catpaw, swatting at the swishing robes, and whisker-twitching at passing breezes, until he reached the right room.

The right room smelled of musty wood and leather, and was filled with rustling, fascinating, forbidden papers stacked high, wall to wall. Ser Pounce-A-Lot snuck into its half-opened doorway, stepped silently across the soft rugs, leapt up on the nearest bookcase, pawed at the book to tip over and open the way up, and from the top shelf, reached the open window. He climbed across the arch, tail perfectly balanced, ears perked up, leaping from one sunlit parapet to another and another and made it to the first level of rooftop shingles. From there, it was not far at all to reach the topmost window in the tower, right above the sun-warmed shingles, right below the sparrows' nest, barely out of reach of his curious paw. There, in the small room at the very top, deep inside in the furthest corner, his human currently slept, curled around the furry-faced human, his mate.

Satisfied, Ser Pounce-A-Lot puffed out his orange fur in the warm morning sun, snuck across the floor, hopped up and peered from the vantage point of the headboard, and then deposited the still-dripping, gill-twitching, tail-flopping mackerel right between the two heads sleeping on a single pillow.

"GYAAARGH!" the furry-faced human bolted up to sit, flailing about even more than the fish. _How rude!_ Pounce flattened his ears at the sudden racket. _Well, at least,_ he thought smugly, _**my**__ human is smart enough to laugh and pat the fuzzier one, to calm him down._

Though when patting turned to wrestling, Pounce sniffed and left them to it. _Mating again! When I've just brought them a beautiful breakfast!_ As he stalked off, nose in the air, he consoled himself with the thought that they must be in heat. _It would certainly explain the noise at all hours. How is a cat supposed to get a proper eighteen hours of sleep around here?_

* * *

"Anders, you know perfectly well it's against the rules."

"Oh, come on, Owain!" Anders wheedled. "Lemme have a peek at your Book of Bets? I won't abuse it. Promise." After all, he just needed a harmless second to look at the start of the alphabet, at the 'A's. At 'Anders' to be exact. If he didn't find out what bets they'd been placing about him lately, he'd explode with curiosity. "It's spring!" he babbled by way of distracting the quartermaster, "Soon! Feel the spirit! The sparks! The undefinable, undefiable season of love!"

Owain's voice overrode him with the steady cadence of a clock measuring time, just before Anders' witterings got really out of hand. "Spring is perfectly simple to define. …As for the rest of your… monologue," Owain added with a dryness that almost sounded like the world's subtlest sarcasm, "My capacity to feel may differ from yours, but you also differ from all other beings."

"But!" Anders said, and repeated for emphasis. "BUT! That's the point. Love is not to be defined! It defies definition! It just _is_. Take the First Enchanter, for example. He walks into the room and he just… _is_. And when he walks _out_ of the room…" Bright blue eyes glazed over. "…that's an arse that can make the world stand still, no matter how fast he strides."

"I daresay that is not the conventional definition of love… since this is the first time I have heard of the gluteus maximus as a yardstick of romantic attachment."

Anders beamed. "Then you haven't been paying attention. I can assure you that 'yardstick' is the perfect way to describe the results of looking at an arse as amazing as that!"

Owain looked dubiously at Anders: at a very particular point on Anders, to be precise. "Your accuracy leaves much to be desired. Or possibly your modesty."

"Modesty? Here? We're in the biggest, tallest, most upthrust tower in Ferelden!" _And I'm currently spending my nights floating around the very top of it!_ "Around here, racks aren't for holding up staves. Thought I know a couple of particularly well endowed apprentices who tried that and… oh nevermind. And for your information, when apprentices mention 'some ass'? They're not talking about donkeys."

Owain gave him a perfectly blank stare. "But what else would they…"

"Exactly!" Anders emphasised. "But-t!"

"Stop teasing him," grumbled Garrett, as he rounded the corner and leaned against the doorway of the storage rooms, arms crossed and robes starched, the very picture of propriety. Only his stare spelled out what his lips did not: 'Come shag me.'

Only self-control intense enough to make Justice proud, kept Anders from bouncing up right then and there, with a leer on his lips, a sway on his hips and a cry of 'Yessir! Yessir! Three shags full, sir!' He settled for a comparatively sedate smile and a single "Yessir!"

Owain's stare shifted from Anders to Hawke. "May I say, First Enchanter, Anders has become much more obedient since you've taken to mentoring him."

Garrett beamed, slinging his arm around Anders, as if he was personally responsible for the achievement. As if this was an achievement at all! "Why thank you for the vote of confidence. As the old saying goes, 'Early to bed and early to rise…"

Anders grumbled, for show, and tried to shrug that arm off, while simultaneously reaching around behind Hawke to pinch the smug sod's arse. _That ought to hurry him up! He'd better get us 'early to bed', before I show him 'early to rise' right here!_

* * *

Hawke squirmed at the well-timed pinch. Haste-rushing the teasing Anders into the nearest storeroom closet sounded better by the second. He resisted, if only to remind himself that payback was sweeter if he made Anders wait for it.

"I wish you a restful night, First Enchanter," Owain replied evenly. "Before you go, would you care to place a wager?"

"On what?" Hawke prompted. It could've been on anything, from which first-year apprentice would put a classmate to sleep with a misdirected Entropy hex, to which professor would be the first to trip over the curly-toed slippers that were a new fashion. Owain had kept book for the whole Tower, for as long as Hawke had been there, and probably for as long as Irving had been there before him.

"Whether Senior Enchanter Levyn and Librarian Dagna will marry before Wintersend."

Hawke whistled and shook his head. "Nice try, Owain old son," he grinned, "but that one's a dead cert. I don't think anyone in the tower or the town would bet against it."

Owain inclined his head, unruffled as ever. "Right you are, First Enchanter," he replied, untroubled.

"Yeah, _everyone_ knows about J- Levyn and Dagna," Anders grinned at Hawke. "If you thought Dagna was chirpy before, these days you have to hit her with all hundred volumes of the Encyclopedia Ponderosa to stop her singing in the book stacks. I heard it from _impeccable sources_ that she was seen carrying one of the library's stepladders to Levyn's rooms, if you know what I mean. And you know what else? Yesterday," Anders' voice dropped to a portentous whisper and his eyes went round as saucers, "_Levyn_ was actually caught _smiling!_ In _class!_"

Hawke bit the inside of his cheeks to prevent himself from cracking a grin.

"Truly," he intoned with the full force of First Enchanterly Gravitas, "It Is A Sign Of The End Times."

* * *

Carver's curt reply to Garrett's letter full of Howe-innuendo arrived in less than a month, which was record time for Warden correspondence.

_**You're far too concerned with my love life.**_

_**What's the matter, old man? Jealous? Or are you too busy shagging a young and pretty apprentice - in your Fade-dreams. **_

_**- C.**_

Anders, always possessed of a sharp nose for gossip, poked said nose over Garrett's shoulder before Garrett even finished reading the letter himself. "Carver," Anders drawled, "Well, isn't _he_ curious these days? Why do you even bother answering him? Clearly he has trouble with all your big words." Anders gave a sharp little smirk he must've learned from Ser Pounce-A-Lot. "_I_ think I should draw him some pictures!"

Garrett snorted. "My darling brother's head is big enough as it is. Your idea of pictures would make his head explode!" _Two guesses which head... _"And then Howe would be even crankier than he usually is, and _then_ where would the world be?"

They chuckled, and Anders circled round to lean against the desk, one hip propped on the edge. He bowed his head, looking down at his hands, and hair as rebellious as its owner escaped from the tie, drifting forward to curtain his face. Slim fingers picked at each other. "Speaking of letters…" Anders bit his lip. "Mum wrote this week. She, uh. Knows. About us. I've mentioned you too much, I guess. She wants to know…" his gaze flicked up, seeking Garrett's through a veil of tangled gold, "what your intentions toward me are."

Anders' fingers curled over the pale parchment marked with 'Lieber Huldiberaht,' and Garrett smiled. Anderfels mothers, they were so alike. He still remembered the embroidered handiwork of another Anderfels mother, which was Anders' only contribution - besides Anders himself and an occasional copy of his Manifesto - to their bed in the Amell estate. Garrett remembered it as clear as day. Stitched runes for 'Berahthraben' marked the corner of that pillow, a painstakingly hand-cleaned stain was almost nonexistent at candlelight, and the crowing silk cock in the center was still just as scarlet as if it had been stitched yesterday.

Garrett rose to his feet, reaching to still those slender, talented hands. "You already know what my intentions are," he murmured, quiet and certain, leaning in so that their foreheads touched, "You've known all along."

A slow smile curved Anders' lips, glinted in that clear-sky gaze. "Yes, I know," he breathed in tones warm with wonder, "I've known for as long as I've known who I really am." He tugged one hand from Garrett's, held it up in a warning gesture, "But before I write her back, _you_ should know something else. If I _do_ tell her it's serious," Anders' soft grin abruptly brightened and took a sideways turn into pure imp, "you'll never get away without your very own embroidered cock pillow."

"Really?" Garrett beamed. "Great! Just as long as it's the _pillow_ that's got an embroidered cock. I'd rather not have _my_ cock embroidered, whether it gets a pillow or not!"

Anders snorted. "Kinky! Even I don't want _that_ many piercings." He reached out and squeezed Garrett's shoulder. "Fear not!" he grinned. "Mum may put a lot of pricks in her embroidery fabric but she'll love you. Who doesn't?"

"Templars?"

"They're not invited."

Garrett's wide smile wasn't a bit hidden by his beard. "They're also not around anymore."

"Handy how that works out, innit?"

"Coincidence is a beautiful thing."

Anders wrapped his arms around Garrett's waist. Memory glinted in that clear gaze, and the teasing look faded into a deeper happiness. "I prefer," he confided in a whisper, "to think of it as fate."

* * *

Anders fidgeted all morning with Freedom's Call; Garrett had taken down Anders' old staff from pride of place over their bed. Anders didn't normally use it, any more than he normally used Malcolm's Honor; both staves felt strangely heavy in his hands now, as if physically weighted with too many memories. But this was no ordinary occasion. He leaned companionably against the Liberator statue and fluffed up his human-sized pauldrons to match the feathers carved of stone, casting twin fluffy shadows on the grass.

"Should I go back inside? They'll never recognize me. I should give you some time to tell them…"

"Stay right here." Garrett gave him a reminiscent smile. "You look just like yourself … Feathers suit you like no one else. You look tons better than your statue."

"What? It's ten feet tall!" Anders sized it up, and made a show of crouching down to peek under the hem of the statue's robes. "And hung! You're blind."

Garrett chuckled indulgently, shaking his head. Of course he knew Anders' antics for what they were: cover for his nerves.

_Where is that boat?_ Anders peered into the blue, shining surface of the lake. _Come on, where are you?_

_They'll be here soon!_ The realization hit him, as startling as a stray swell of cold lakewater: making him breathe harder, like the lake's rambunctious waves always did when they slapped him wetly upside the head. _Isabela and Fenris, and Varric, and even Merrill. They're all coming here, to see us._

Anders' heart was jumping in his chest. It skipped a beat at the far-off grate of the boat's keel against the shore, at the sight of the distant figures inside. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Garrett's hand: that firm, reassuring grip felt like the only thing that could keep his jitters from bouncing him all the way off the ground and into the air like a balloon, lightheaded and giddy with apprehension and anticipation. He had no idea what would happen when he finally saw his old friends again. But with Garrett holding his hand - standing openly by his side beneath a sky as wide as freedom, as blue as Justice - this was already the best day Anders could hope for.

* * *

There was no subtle way to ease into news this momentous, so Hawke did what he usually did: squared his shoulders, marshalled his formidable resolve, and faced the problem.

He smiled and waved at the first shouts of "Hawke!" (Fenris, terse as ever) "It's been too long, you mad sod!" (Varric, his old exuberant self) "You look well, First Enchanting suits you!" (Merrill) and Isabela's inimitable greeting: "How're they hanging?"

"Juuust fine!" Anders drawled knowingly in pure reflex banter, and then froze the next instant when his brain caught up with his mouth.

"Ooh, hello! Who's your friend?" Merrill chirped at Hawke, before turning to Anders. "You look a bit like a deer. You know, that big-eyed look they get when a hunter spots them? Um, deer are very handsome," she added belatedly with an awkward smile, "don't you think?"

Hawke leaned into Anders' side and slipped an arm around his waist in a show of support (which was sorely needed, if the whipcord tension he could feel was any indication). "He's Anders." Hawke paused a beat, reading the expected dubiousness in their expressions. "Yes." he declared, in tones as steady as bedrock. "Our Anders." _My Anders,_ the tightening of that arm into a sideways hug mutely declared.

Their friends were so startled by Hawke's declaration that shock was clear in every face. Even Varric, consummate bullshit artist that he was, was visibly shaken. "Anders, eh?" he replied slowly, gaze darting from Hawke to Anders in a rapid, almost hunted manner.

"Anders came back," Hawke stated in tones cool and flat and utterly serious.

"That's quite some story you've got there, big guy," Varric replied, slow and uncertain, as he fixed Hawke with a worried stare. "Not every day you get people, uh. Coming back."

Merrill piped up unexpectedly. "Not every day, no, but it happens." she assured Varric matter-of-factly. "Rarely, but it does. For all sorts of reasons. Sometimes it doesn't end well," she added judiciously, "but then, sometimes it does. Just like all sorts of things in life, I suppose."

"Hardly." Fenris' growl was so quiet, Hawke desperately hoped it didn't reach Anders' ears. "Any desire demon..."

Anders' shoulders hunched defensively; in the feathered pauldrons it made him look like a ruffled crow. "I'm not an abomination!" he growled.

"Oh I can _tell _you're not," Merrill waved off Anders' and Fenris' objections with an airy flick of one delicate hand. "Spirits have no patience at all for these sorts of discussions. They get all grumpy and _forward _when they have to deal with emotions they don't really understand."

Isabela's smirk grew even more suggestive as she sized up Anders. "Not to mention I'd know a desire demon if I saw one," she declared, stroking Fenris' arm soothingly, "and he's far too overdressed and not nearly horny enough."

"Right." Anders squared his shoulders, cracked his knuckles and marched up to Isabela, coming to a stop with his face a bit too close to the eyedazzling twin view, for Hawke's comfort. "Let's get this over with." As Anders reached out to press the tip of one index finger to the small of her back and the other to her navel, Hawke's blood boiled faster than he expected it to. He bit his tongue, and narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare of Fenris' lyrium tattoos as they lit up in sync with the faint zap of Anders' spell. "Ohh!" Isabela stumbled, knees going weak with the lightning-fast punch of magic-induced bliss Hawke knew all too well. Only her hand closing on Anders' shoulder kept her on her feet. "Sparklefingers! It really _is_ you!" she laughed breathlessly, "I'd know that magic touch of yours anywhere!"

Fenris growled and looked poised to bite. Hawke entirely sympathised.

But instead of fleeing, Anders sauntered right up to a glowering Fenris. He extended one of the fingertips he'd just used to such devastating effect on Isabela, used it to trace a single curlicue of lyrium with a featherlight touch. "_So_ glad to see you're not still wearing that red kerchief," Anders said sweetly. He lifted his hand away in a cat-quick blur of movement, just before Fenris would have slapped his hand away with a razor-clawed gauntlet; anticipating Fenris' strike with the split-second timing of practice. "Have you replaced it with one of Isabela's headscarves perhaps?"

Fenris snarled, green eyes narrowing to slits, pointed ears lowering dangerously. "And what if I have?"

"Good," Anders snapped, hard and sharp as ice, "because Hawke's _mine!_"

"That's enough with the pissing contest, boys," Varric grumbled, glancing from Anders to Fenris, to Hawke stewing off to one side. "Bianca's getting antsy. No one needs to take an arrow to the knee."

"He started it," Fenris growled, just like he always used to do in his squabbles with Anders, "I should finish it."

Anders eyerolled at Fenris but turned to face Varric, holding up his hands, palm out in a placating gesture, spiked with a lopsided, wry grin that was all too familiar. "Sorry about that, Vati."

'Daddy' in Anderfels, Hawke's memory supplied. Varric snorted, despite himself, at the well-remembered nickname: one he'd never heard Anders use when they weren't alone. Anders closed the distance, bent to whisper at length into Varric's ear. Varric started to grin slowly as the whispering continued, and even Hawke leaned forward in fascination. Anders straightened up, and he and Varric said the punchline in perfect unison, "Now we can ALL get some sleep!" They shared a reminiscent chuckle.

Hawke hadn't been able to make out what Anders was saying, and everyone else - except Varric and Anders - looked every bit as bewildered as Hawke felt. Even Merrill and Fenris looked nonplussed, and they probably had much better hearing than Hawke did.

"Long story," Varric didn't really explain.

"Yeah," Anders added with a grin, "You could call it a shaggy-mabari sort of story."

Varric nodded. "One of those tales best saved for the Hanged Man, or whatever the local pub's called." He looked expectantly from Hawke to Anders.

Hawke laughed. "It's called the Spoiled Princess," Anders chipped in, "But we've got even better drinks in our rooms." He linked arms with Hawke, waving the free arm in an inviting gesture toward the Tower's gates. "Shall we?"

"Good idea," Isabella grinned. "I haven't had nearly enough rum today to deal with one of Varric's riddles."

"Oh, one more thing," Varric added as Anders stopped in his tracks. "Welcome back, Blondie. It just hasn't been the same without you. You do know you've been missed?"

"So were you, you sly sod," Anders grinned at Varric. "And thanks for giving the credit" the irony in Anders' voice made it clear he really meant 'the blame', "to Vael. I'm sure he enjoyed the notoriety, and I hope he choked on it." And then Anders dropped to his knees, flung his arms around Varric's broad chest, and just bearhugged him, hard enough for even Varric's laughter to sound a bit breathless.

* * *

Much later, after one too many surprises for an unsuspecting traveller to handle without a stiff drink, and after far too many stiff drinks afterwards, even Varric eventually ran out of stories. For the moment, anyway. Bianca rested, gleaming, at his knee, Daisy's yawns turned into a quiet snore at his side, the bottle of whiskey was nearly empty yet still passed around the table. Varric lifted his hand from Daisy's soft eartip and waved emphatically to get Hawke's attention.

"So," Varric fired a knowing glance at Hawke, "We stopped by Amaranthine on the way here..." A smile quirked his lips. "Commander Howe says hello." He puffed out his chest and paused for good measure, watching Hawke's face grow redder in the magelight.

Isabela perked up right away, smirking at them from her seat on Fenris' lap. "You have to excuse Howe," she drawled. "He's far too busy these days to write long letters, in between all the buggering he and that brother of yours _supposedly_ get up to."

Varric watched them carefully.

Blondie's eyes went wide and he tried - and failed miserably - to stifle a shiteating grin. Hawke gave a choked splutter. They traded stares.

Varric waited it out, enjoying a perfect pause. "Do you two happen to know anything about that?"

"Who, me?" Blondie spoke up far too quickly, cranking the baby-blue-innocent-eyes look just a bit too hard.

"No idea what you're on about," Hawke deadpanned. "Do tell."

_Well, well, look at that. They're just handing me ammunition! I'd be an idiot and an ingrate if I didn't take it from such willing fingers. Before Isabela does it for me._

_This ought to be good. All those forbidden rites and that Grey Warden stamina... Let's just hope by the time this story catches on and gets back to Howe, we'll be out of his territory and back in the Free Marches._

Varric kicked back, folded his arms over his chest, and prepared to spin yet another riveting tale.

Just like old times.

* * *

The End. (And the beginning.)


End file.
